Sometimes I look at you and wonder if you actually like me.
Your eyes are bright and full of hope, yet there is still mystery in your gaze.
Life is much similar, giving us false glimpses of hope, only to fail us later with deception.
I fear someday too, that you will fail me, but for now I must have blind faith.

The rain pours down on an early fall day;
Summer is weeping before her departure, it seems.
I envy the seasons, and how they can come and go with such ease.
As if they are sick of Earth, and wish to go for a bit.
If I were Autumn, with her brisk attitude, and carefree lifestyle,
I wonder if maybe you would come to appreciate me more.

At times, I look at the rain and ponder if it comes to cleans us of our doubts.
If maybe it was summoned just to tell us, "Your fears are no more,"
And then I realize weather does not have personification,
Nor do eyes contain mystery, only expression,
And that you must like me, or else you wouldn't be here.
I suppose rain maybe does cleans our fears a bit more than we realize.