I am every sort of storm turning
half of every raindrop destroyed
on impact with the puddles
that reflect the forsaken clouds.

Piles of mud,
some are lost cities that children stopped playing with,
where the cars are still over turned
and the wind cements them in place.
Imprisoned.

Others are just mud, sinking and leaving,
just mounds of soil ****** as imperfect patches
of grassless lawn that have, too, gone away.

Oh, how I wish I wasn't alone.