sour as a lone paper machete;
rainy mornings ebb and wane,
as damp tenor deteriorates.
Hesitating, I weather, bicker
only to later make amends;
for I rescind her for happiness,
and with it, the sweeping winds.
She's at sea, but simmer'd down,
nonplussed, in keeping, unexcited;
pleated skin at its capricious best,
her whims equally short sighted.
Now I'm untroubled in monsoon,
dusting megrims 'neath the windowsill;
as we eschew from cribbing much,
the zephyr that died at standstill.
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