The summer was riddled with rain,
each drop, dripping with dread.
Me, alone under my umbrella,
wishing to forget,
stalking my shadow,
kept alive and alert by the hunt.
Nothing feels right.
All the stars have gone out.
It can't just be the pollution.
The clocks cackle,
cycling numbers with sick smiles,
green leaves, grow old before their time,
and I hunt the heiress of my misery,
watching it march from my estate and back again, like a dance, ever doomed to have no partner.
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