The sky is becoming excitable, as I propped my brain
Between a genuine interest and a weather; these
Clouds, with their white lids and water over my head,
Dumped buckets of water much as a cream color
Into my piece of coffee with the intention of wishing
Me a good morning. The amusing side more certain
As the necessity never dwindled. Perhaps it was
All an illusion, which may not be peculiar in everything.
And very strongly I may be fainting: the perfect way
To accustom the thing. It took mercy and relaxation
And even a cloud strength surrounding my sanctorum
To decrease a holy mess. It is so rudimentary and a
Creamy substance strangely to mingle in my awakening.
The clouds pass and pass, it is impossible to tell how
Many there are. I did not want any of them, only
A dark substance in a morning cup, supposing it is
Very black in a regularity. What is the use of this kind of
Delightfulness if there is no pleasure in not getting
Tired of it. At any rate, there is some venturing in refusing
To believe cream could be likely in an air fall from above.
It must be the season, trimming the summer into an
Autumn. The settling of leaves is one way to scatter a tree.
Some gratitude, reckless if you ask me. A calamity of
Colors and a raking; much, much too early for an ordinary.
Before they came my mornings were calm, committed to
Caffeine in a cup. Is there not much more joy to proclaim.
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