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"angst, and it isn't quite right."

Somewhere a man awakens from his nocturnal slumber,
Harshly is he slammed with angst as a tree by thunder.
His claustrophobic mind consumes itself, compelled.
Thoughts causing harm, he tries to escape this Hell.

His clothes and his walls he sheds in disoriented state,
Climbing the highest hill to dispose of this weight.
Storms of nature and frustration have followed curiously,
Joining in rendezvous at the summit to purge furiously.

Bound as one, from them wild precipitation falls,
And with the frustrated roar of Prometheus, he calls.
On and on, the downpours gush as one,
And not until the anger leaves is it done.

And everything returns to how it was the previous night,
And the pendulum swings back like death back to life.

 

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12/03/08 MOOD:  (mood:  yellow)