Rain.

Raindrops fall on my skin, pecking softly,

As spent fingers, on an old typewriter.

Glazing and polishing,

Losing me to the reflections.

Like an old woodworker

Cautious to scar the wood- just enough.

Drops evoke the many serpents on my forehead,

Into a slithering gait of a perplexed variety.

Creasing and creating channels,

Bounding liberating showers into pain.

The ones that survive, in the alcove of the eyes, nurtured-

Awaken the incapable tears of an earlier occasion,

They too fall.

I love the rain.

It stirs me to a thick consistency.

I am me and I loose myself.

It cools my charred skin of the sun’s brawl,

It burns my heart away of its coldness.

Rain provokes my pain,

Rain, conceals it too.

I too fall.