shadows shuffle with thin letters over heads-- people try to escape the downpour of Nature’s sadness or self-renewal. They splash their confusion and unawareness-- the anger of no preparation.
Perhaps it’s Reality’s stupidity, but they run to safety, warmth, comfort-- the arms of Acceptance that bring contentment-- warm coffee and eskimo kisses; fingers on clocks vanquish light and
defy some sense of logic we deem scientifically relevant. Suddenly, life’s bruising is as fresh as wet pavement--as fresh as your hands--eager and innocent— racing to find every curve, hill, valley of my willingness.
I am sore from phantom kisses-broken from abandonment—a coward’s half-assed fight. As rain cheats the sun, I have been cheated with songs that are just songs--words as paradoxical as rainfall and sunshine harmonized.
As it rains, I don’t move--but I feel it run; through my hair--down softness and skin--as familiar as your hands--dust trails embedded in my closed eyes—people, you and I, aware. Silently, Reality knows that time—fingers on clocks--vanquishes nothing but itself.