A brief respite upon this seeblatt from the weeping tumult of rain, And as the murky water wavers below The trepidation grows.
To think if I were swallowed, a deadweight descending depth through a maelstrom of muck and mire. An emerging ellipsism is cemented as I would stifle in the sludge.
Oh, how I long for the lull of petrichor The tranquility succeeding the storm. Could I ever forgive myself? I believe this misshapen Seeblatt is mine.