As I view fragments of an amorphous, that is, without regard
to form, in the order in which they occurred to me.
Sound is unjust wielding a phenomenon of nature’s calm
storm.
Morning’s light moves elsewhere.
The invisible action of movement, it doesn’t act violent at
this very moment,
the sounds of prosody,
ruffles
sputters
chatters, because the foliage is being frank yet coy with
wind.
The atmosphere dulled in vibrancy, floating in an anxious
field of cumulonimbus clouds.
The weather permits itself as sober yet existing within a
false tempo;
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what a fiasco of charmlessness.
Bountiful in tonal shadows, stringent in ominous relief:
foreplay.
The showers begin rioting furiously ripping and churning the
air violently.
The noise, supersaturate when drumming the landscape with
only droplets of rain.
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