April is a liar,
baptizing you with tears, tears.  
April tells you pretty nothings
as it pours down on your already drenched and pale face.

"Patience dear, better things will come."

When will its tide retreat?
When will you be able to loosen your grip
on the window ledge above its raging ocean?

"Patience dear, better things will come."

Aprils tidal wave swirls around you
and locks your bones into place.
When will its sea part?

"Patience dear, better things will come."
...but April darling,
I've already drowned.