When rain falls to earth,
and you hear the patter,
do you think of the crowd inside the ground?
Or the worms that die after?
When thunder strikes the sky,
like a hammer to a skull,
does depression whisper,
or does it scream above all?
Can you feel it?
The rain says to me,
under broken words,
as the sad wringing returns.
Yes, I can feel it,
but you wouldn't know the
half of it. No, you wouldn't
get it at all.
The rain does not understand the
feeling it brings down to earth,
like pikes to egyptians, or a puddle
in the desert.
The rain does not know of
the world that it soaks.
It does not feel for the people
who lie underneath the gloating,
roaring sky, nor does it fear the
trees that fall because of it.
The rain is stoic, and emotionless, and
destructive. But still we personify it,
we rectify it.
We ***** a monument to every bitter flash of
lightning; every whimmering rabbit trapped
in their holes, flooded out to the street
in wonder. But not wonder of.
Rather, wonder when the sky became dark, and thoughtless,
and when every morsel of sun became hidden.
It's strange we can't personify the deadest things,
like the worms that crawl from the earth to later die of thirst on the pavement.
It's strange that we personify the rain as a creature of ferocity, when the rain simply does not know when it falls.
I'm just terrified, that one day, the rain will fall on itself,
and she will see what she has done,
who she has become,
and the world that is spinning around,
on an axis that runs parallel with the ground.