Gray, wind, flakes.
Each the same color:
see-through.
Given tree foreground,
got background cloud.
Dichotomies!
Manicheanism!
Split infinity
(negative).
Syllable counts
return hanging chads
to a Floridian general
and clamber for another
chance at the chancery.
Give it to us, Dickens,
your coppers litter our
field and we are yet
hungry.
Another twisp,
another squish,
another minute in the mud.
Pianisms key our rusted doors
to unforgive these shabby floors.
Sparkle, dewdrop, your time
is temporary and it's now
and now and now.
Roman Ryan 