La Météo

Rattling pockets echo
against the now dry
hillside’s fields,

Mourning emptiness
covered by the fabric,
fragrant, like the lost,

adorned with alien image.
Again, saved like
memories behind a screen,

Soft touch screams
with depression that
never left,

Pressing down on sheets
of fading grey
with inevitable fall.

Mystic power pulls on
forgotten feeling,
Remade in the dark back,

Dragged with rising sun.

La Météo

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