The streets are clear, we're hydrophobic
Hoods propped by hats and socks pulled high;
The rain brings peace to the agoraphobic
Puddles form moats and clouds fill the sky.

Splash, droplets hit the window,
chauffeured by the gale outside.
Squint your eyes and flash back
boats tilt starboard, with the tide.

The captain shouts to the decks, paranoid
'Clear the decks and brace for impact'
Without turbulence we are disenfranchised
Boredom becomes us when we're boring.

Shake it off and stare at the dot to dot
the residual carving of water as it slides
Another droplet falls beside it, parallel
it aligns, growling thunder overhead.

Without stirring we are robotic workforces
Without awaking we are left inside
The constructs created for us, by corporate-
conglomerate elitist-psychopaths.

Two drops of water on the window
simmer red with burning anger.
Crash lightening sears the sky
Rage becomes you, girders melt.

The starry night undercurrent, flings
us backwards, never up, as democracies
which seek to serve sink into a sea of
stocks and shares, the wall street journal

sits atop the captains lobby, economies
were meant to tumble as the working classes
fumble for bread, men in suits gaggle
and toast to the millions they left for dead.

Resistance is futile, when eighty-five
of the richest suit owners sit on currency
that was meant for the three point five
billion who aren’t driven by gluttony.

Hiding from a rainstorm
is supposed to be tranquil :
                the patter of rain...
                the rumble of harmless thunder...
                watching the storm, but never feeling it...
Just raindrops on windows, with you safe inside.

But what if that thunder is the breaking of a friend's heart?
The lightning, the slashing of her dreams?
Her storm is raging within a snow globe…
From the outside, beautiful and perfect...
Unless you know the truth.

Thank God for that glassy protection, right?
Except...
             For all your good intentions...
             And best efforts...
             And wishful thinking...
All you can do is stay by her side
until her world settles.

What if that storm was a torrent of bullets,
Tearing her to pieces?
You can only watch,
Untouchable behind bulletproof glass...

I mean, at least you're safe, right?
… But doesn't it hurt you to witness it
Without being able to intervene?

What if that rain is made of salty tears?
Heartaches and losses and sorrow...
You can try...
                 and be there for her...
                 and phone and listen...
                 and offer every ounce of your comfort...
But no matter what you do...
God still controls the weather.

I mean, at least it isn't your own suffering.
… But that's just it, isn't it?
There's no doorway through a wall of glass.

See,
The very best part of chrysalism
Is that you're hiding on the inside
Within your own peaceful world.

The worst?
You can't swap places.

In the aftermath, I lay across my adolescent
comforter in the faded spot, hoping to soak up any
remnants of a sun that refuses
to show its face today.

Raindrops stick to my window,
spattered from juvenile tyranny,
born out of temperamental
tempests that literally manifest
from nowhere. These are the tears

I wish I could cry, for even the sky
prays it could hide from the tumult.

Chrysalism is defined as the feeling associated with being inside
Cozy and warm through a rough thunderstorm
And that sensation is a pleasure that's hard to rival

Maybe I'm going through an extreme bout with that emotion
Because I've been inside so long i could probably compare notes with Noah about the creatures in a rain filled ocean.
But with the motions and tide of life and the things I've been through

Most of which dear friends I've told to you
Im living with my demons, and if i can make it so can you
Break through your chrysalis' I'll be cheering and praying for you

Rain on windows
Is seeing something...
Hearing something...
Knowing it has happened...
But it doesn't touch you.

So how can you feel it?
Should you feel it
streak down your face?

Or is that just a hallucination?
Something you want to feel, but shouldn't?

For it is not a thing you want to be a part of.
But still, it's one you really just want
To trade, that is.
So they might take your place

In the chrysalism of detachment.

Outside, the wind is screaming profanities so loud not even my solidified fortress can keep the sound out. The rain is falling down my skylights almost reluctantly, like not even they want to be part of the storm.  God is pacing, throwing himself around. I can hear his uneasiness booming all around, I can see the flashes of anger in his eyes.
Inside, my fortress is dry, warm, tranquil. It is a safe abode from the frustrations outside the walls. Although I may be safe from God's temper tonight, I have a storm raging inside of me, breaking my ribs and burning my heart. I understand Him, and the need for him to cause such disaster. I am disastrous in my own way. Ripping innocent hearts with my need to feel calm.There is a certain comfort knowing somebody is the feelings the same pain as I am.

felt the warmth inside while the cold rain came

Drip.
Drip.
Boom.

When I look out my rain plastered window.
I see the storm is approaching the meadow.

Drip.
Drip.
Boom.

I lay back on my bed and listen.
I hear the window and the rain kissing.
I imagine how the sunlit meadow glistens.

Drip.
Drip.
Boom.

My heart starts to flutter.
When I hear the proud thunder.
My room lights up in color.
As the lightning strikes another.

Drip.
Drip.
Boom.

All of my words drown in the noise.
While my mind is risen and poise.
Like me, sometimes, the storm is powerful and destroys.

Drip.
Drip.
Boom.

When the morning comes near.
Everything is bright and clear.

I'm on fire again
and it burns like a dæmon.

I find myself reveling in this
feeling, feeling so much more
than I had before. I worry that
I'd lose myself in this
quiet inferno, or return to those
forgotten shores, that I'd bathe
in the Phlegethon or the Lethe
once more. Pyromancy and tranquillity.

“Everything has its wonders, even darkness
and silence, and I learn, whatever state I may be in, therein to be content”.

Time is a river whose waters we stand in,
Memory is the fountain which overflows.