Rain lashes your new window.
This fungal spring sprouts
many mushrooms of memory,
your only available landscape.
Ghosts and visions abound.
The land of the dead living.
You wander through the murk
like lost Odysseus seeking
Elpenor and Tiresias.
A man of no fortune
with a name to come.
A blind, windy prophet.
Shades of voyages past.
Lost in the mist of mind.
A morning of might have beens.
A portal of perforation
leading to lost tea leaves
and dripping roses.
Places you could have been, if
you hadn’t followed fake orders,
if you weren’t here now.
Tears, hopeless adoration,
missed chances, passions.
All contained in this dismal day.
Rain, rain, go away.

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