Weakling Sun

Where the sun is clutched
By the grey veil of clouds
A weakling's light, bare and faint
A colour like eggshells
No room for the city's sigh
Deafening, oppressive
Bright and strong
Now fenced and cowed
This place brims with it
Cowardly, brutish, feral
Wounds as deep as trenches
A mongrel's faith

Is it cold in the place where they remember your name?



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