August begins,
Storms swinging the light poles.
Rain takes over,
So do over-gushing potholes.
Seems the dusk dawned,
An hour early.
Everyone's inside,
And the houses shut.
Amidst the room all dark
Slowly the old glass lamp,
Next to the newly planted pots,
Makes its yellow presence.
Over grandma's woven rug,
Silently do we sit,
With garlic Mushrooms and empty mug.
Do pour in some whiskey,
Served with my favorite author,
And your favorite poetry.
Together do we read.
Until the old glass lamp,
Silently extinguishes,
And its yellow presence
Softly ends.
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