It is difficult to know what is right in all cases. - M.B., I.210.29

The Cloud Factory



I burn firewood
Polished and cleaned
For the sun is dead;
Has been unseen
For a couple of days,
The black flecks moan;
Anti-matter?
The sun is gone,

In fireplace
Burns the firewood,
The firelight
Lights up my mood,
D’ you hear local
Weavers, warp and woof?
A cloud factory
On my roof,

The cloud factory
Has malfunctioned:
A cloud of black
Smoke; everyone
Below my chimney
Is littered with
The black soot,
Tears for sun?

The black smoke
Has to settle down,
With soot the size of
Large snowflakes
Hit its soul with
The snow on ground,
Stark white snow
Against carbon black,

Her silky skin
Runs on my bed,
Her shiny hairs,
Her folds of flesh,
Vicious her smile,
Her laughter, slash,
In bed with her
I simply goof,
The firelight
Lights up my mood,
A cloud factory
On my roof,

This season strange,
This season white,
Regret for sun,
For love delight,
A quantum of balance to
Amalgamate into a whole,
Love and winter,
Warmth and cold,

My chimney emits
The dull dark clouds,
And the burning wood
Crackles loud, while
The dull dark soot
Falls soft on snow
On which the walkers paint
Monochrome frescoes



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