Cold Air In August (Three Years Now)

The sky is always grey like cigarette ashes,
>
> the sunlight dim, dirty and weak through
>
> the
cold air. Cold air in August, three years now.
>
> They set off the bomb, and we went to sleep instead of burning.
>
> So little grows, but I scratch out a little,
>
> just to stay here in the dark, the fire gone,
>
> the
cold when she’s one of the lost in DC.
>
> They set off the bomb, and they are dead, nobodies are here.
>
> In my worn down trailer home, with a few books and idols,
>
> the bed where I dream of her every night, dream of California
>
> before the war, us running in blue waves, absolutely free.
>
> They set off the bomb, and took our dreams, left us with bones.
>
> In the dark, without stars, only a masked and distant moon,
>
> I hear a coyote howl, for the first time since the war, the bombs,
>
> and think maybe something will come after, something good.

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