The Rain,
It pitter patters down on rooftops,
telling stories,
singing songs.
The Rain,
it lulls some to sleep,
while other times shouting, banging on the roof,
trying to break in and soak all that lie beneath.
The Rain,
even named after itself,
the word rolls of ones tongue like
water
flowing
down
the sides of dark roads.
Rain,
both happiness and sadness are brought.
When sitting staring through blurred windows,
at blurred objects, not masked,
but softened, heard, understood
by the Rain.
The bleeding of the green leaves down the glass,
is the Rain diving into the tree,
and pulling out its emotions,
maybe not to read, but to
see,
to hear,
to discover.
The Rain,
it is a drumbeat to our own musical thoughts.
It brings sad happiness,
happy sadness.
It brings desire,
love,
and with that, hate.
It does not give,
but provides to ones seeking advice.
It tells to run,
to hide,
stay.
The Rain,
it reaches everything under the stars,
in some way.
Maybe never running down the face,
but it still leaves a mark.
So Rain,
tell me, do you search for us?
Or is it we, knowing or unknowing,
reach to claim your touch?
Is it your wordless advice
so different from monotony
is that what we desire?