Gray
Has Begun
To Mask The Sun
As It Tries to Shine Upon
A Churning Stream Of Sorrow
Which Carves Steep, Sharp
Ledges Into My
Decaying
Soul
         As
                      If
                            I
       ­                      Were
                             C
                  o
      n
s
     t
            r
                  u
                           c
                 t
         e
d
From
A
Mound
Of
Gravel-like
Clay