The rain doesn't fall; it drowns.
Clouds hang low, pregnant with sorrow, weeping endlessly.
Thunder doesn't roar; it grieves, splitting the sky open like a wound.
The earth, once thirsty, now suffocates beneath the weight of too much love.
It begs for flowers, for color, for hope—
But fate is cruel, and fortune never blooms in a flood.

The tree, once proud, stands broken, breathless.
Its limbs, heavy with sorrow, bow to the ground.
Some snap, some shatter, some sink into the mud, forgotten.
No birds, no fruit, no whispering leaves—
Only bare, trembling bones of wood remain.
Once, the rain was a melody. Now, it's a requiem.