Unbecoming

I look outside, my dreary eyes

behold the gestalt state of all.

From the loss of the flies,

the form of the wind to drawl.

I step outside, as cold unbecomes

and gives way to blisters on its side.

Wind tears and growls, and leaves

just as through the falling tide.

Cracks and fractures brew

as the binding whole does scatter.

If we were truly greater than our selves,

perhaps we would have knew.

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