The gun metal gray skies are weeping,
creating unholy mists that
cling to the empty double-hung spaces that are
the windows of my soul.

Sodden now with memory,
unalterably warped,
too many times ignored.

weather-beaten

Like a mangy dog that pads across waterlogged snails,
leaving them to become worthless shells,
dislodged husks of disappointment.
Jellied slugs whose salty trails

dissolve
and erase their grimy existence.