painted gray under the shadows of roaming clouds,
wherein you'll find nothing but crumbled homes,
scattered wood, cement and red brick partitions partitioning none,
homes left abandoned for five years or more that might as well be 100 years,
there are no rivers etching across the unmarked plains,
where only the sagebrush survives the scorching days,
from the highest point you can see the bottom and the top of the sky,
below, the desert in the heart where nothing grows, nothing grows.
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