The Forecast Can Only Climb So High... Poem by Audrey Stephenson

The Forecast Can Only Climb So High...



One hundred misfortunes per square inch
This widowed press is hot with a climbing shame
Flip through these trees, these lonely streets,
They're just synonomous.

Is there a tissue for contrition
This romantic idealism
I've found ambition can lead only to failure
And soon I will be gone

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