They swore it would rain,
overcast and cold, the grey
permeating every dead blade
of grass, every bare bough,
staggering in the wind,
and every soul beneath,
staggering for other reason
toward some unknown eternity.

The forecast told of rain,
but it is only the terrible,
everywhere grey and the
cold of low clouds and
wind that blows in deprecation
through and above everything,
those buildings leaning in the mist
weighed down by their steel frames,
and myself, inundated beneath it all.

They swore on rain
but there is nothing.
Nothing but the grey
and the cold and
the hangover death
of the soul that exists in
this Spring pre-bloom morning