Secondary similes roar in the dark,
leaving vestiges of civility behind
like snipped topiaries.
No one seems to notice
but still the winds shift subtly
and a storm knows it’s being summoned.
Flayed feelings of regret and confusion
have no place in the new world,
where questions are set aside
like abandoned principles,
and color matters more than taste
but less than the song about it all.
Whatever monster makes the dark its home
cannot hold sway
over a tree that bends and returns to standing.

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