The September Rain

loosens in opening sheets against the window, a grey backdrop to my dreams. It seems to haunt me after all these weeks, the sound ever so slowly sliding into my skin, a film on my notions of this place. There is a settling to it, that belays change I cannot find voice for. Today it feels somewhat like being occupied, foreign water on the blood of home. I should write music today, that song that wakes me in the middle of the night is needling me, but I have trouble moving beyond the greyscapes of an autumn hijacked for a price that hasn't yet been named. The rain pulls at me to sleep.

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