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Sun

It floats
Pours
Through silver plate glass,
Turning golden.
Landing on her back
It begins to slowly warm her
Deep healing heat -
She shifts to relieve
The burning sensation.
She slowly, inexorably, grows colder.
Shiver.
She moves back,
Preferring the almost-pain
To the freezing ache.
She tries to concentrate
Her mind wanders,
Rambles -
She begins to doze.
She wakes,
Later,
Knowing she has slept
Not knowing why she woke.
She trembles
And then understands -
The wonderful purity of
Golden Sun
Has been replaced by
Filthy Black Rain.
She is cold.



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natf
Nat S Ford
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