It's raining. It's pouring. Here's another poem for your exploring. I implore you stop snoring and ignoring the resonant glow of morning.
Touring forgotten graveyards should never shed tears of mourning. Celebrating life, while others die, isn't scorning.
Happiness and love that you're storing, sheds bright light on the adoring. Painful funerals seem quite the time, that sounds boring.
Bringing respectful flowers of purple and golden hues equals scoring. Harnessing the power of the Sun is more powerful, than the pedal of the Hummer that you're flooring. The glum guns over soldiers' shoulders fire heart-warming bullets into the sky.
Past souls still swarming, adorning their tears of sadness that rains down to the ground in the light.
Your fear and doubt, swimming around, will swallow you into lost depths for the drowning.
Sprouting up new life from the mound sounds astounding. Crowning new Queens and Kings for selfish deeds, indeed are alarming.
Memories of noble families are founding truths for crowning and gowning. Wealth to weaken poverty, for the pounding.
Quit the clowning, as the pied pipers at dawn wield magical flutes that wipes off frowning faces.
Amounting to the sorrowful pain, gained from the Earth, go wash your dirt, hurt, and pain away in the rain.