The light of dawn has long since passed,
The ‘promise’ of the day awaited.
But promises? They never last.
The day rushed on, as I stood longing for the storm to be abated.
“What ‘storm’?”, you ask (and rightly so),
For surely skies have not been clearer.
Though this is not a strophe of Poe,
The heart, tell-tale, removes the veil; the pendulum swings ever nearer.
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