He lazily wonders, "would it be best,
to manifest,
this array as a poem?"...
Dribbling, drabbling, splishing and splashing,
Summer's scorn whirls unlashing.
Gutter strikes throng cluttered pipes,
filled to burst before crashing.
Concrete delta, chizzled from steel,
devouring, steadily, it's only meal.
Here to stay, but ready to leave,
they swifly pass throughout their eve.
Porch roof wet, drip by the drop,
along the guardian's shielded top.
The sky yields for the setting sun,
but in the night, the bombers run.
Booming strikes desparetely fight
to enter the darkness, and win back the light.
So many things, all the same,
block mountains, laying their claim.
Slicing into theatrical waves,
luck guides as a strider braves.
Running as well, the Tempest to test...
both he and the storm, the other one craves.
Sitting back in his safe little home,
the boy becomes worried,
of becoming too grown.
"How to put into words..."
"This moment may never be seen again."
"Almost gone... lost to the birds..."
"Holding on between a thought and a pen."
