Rain Film

RAIN FILM

On the night of the rains, water was oozing out from the sky's swollen stitches, a rash developed across the meaning of the heavens.

The wooden floors of my attic place strove for a deeper tone, a hoarse calling grew louder as I paced trying to see rain.

I followed the gravity of the treasure hunt where each bounce meant a slap across a table top of tension, where the window basted winter black rain and silence paid another call.

I am as much as this water flower, rain. I am as impressionable as the city that stops for rain. And I lack the same substance that dooms water to be a soft pillow feather; excepting this, I may still shatter this thing, March routine existence by dabbling in destruction.