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Downspouts  

November's infinitude of monotone
is at its greatest glory in the rain;
that constant rain that says we are alone
be we in pleasure, or be we in pain,

notwithstanding the company we keep
or if we keep no company at all
in the melancholy where gray skies weep
as summer's pigment...takes a curtain call.  
Written by MidnightSonneteer
Published
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