The clouds follow you
Dripping gray with doubt
The lion stands by your side
Proud and gold
Her mane reflects rays
On to your shadows
We pick at you, the rotting fruit
Only hoping you can grow
You’ve been sold the wrong soul
And I pray to the earth as my lashes wax the uncut lawn
Because crosses don’t comfort me
Great imagery of a person being followed by the gray clouds, if you think about it enough it almost seems as if clouds follow you whereever you go. The imagery of picking at the rotted fruit is great too. Your last two lines are phenominal, your lashes to the uncut lawn and crosses not comforting you.
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