The sky is a liquid form of ash.
A swirling grey sadness.
There is white there too,
swirling thru and thru.
Trying and failing to dilute the misery,
that hovers above us.
Alas the grey does not become lighter.
But the white mixes darker.
The white swallowed by the cold grey storm,
begins to weep.
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The circumstances of my first wedding to an abusive man.