The Heat
The atmosphere is still.
The humidity is hanging.
The guillotine’s blade will,
Cut the air as heat is regaining,
It’s foothold in the scorching sun.
To which it burns.
And not a drop of water shall run.
The breeze, a breath. Is what we yearn.
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Ricemaster Supreme
I like to cartoon, I engage in the lost art of "reading for fun", and I like writing humor or satire. If you can't tell by my profile picture, I like rice.
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