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Speckling drops, of bathwater- lovely evening rain.
Patter melodically against
my open window frame.
The  water touches me not,
for my roof with gutters and onings.
But the dewy breeze saturates my room
like my face to an ocean breeze.
Mother Waters, send her daughters
to my window this spring night singing.
Distant puddle patterning ploops,
diameters mass expanses on the suburban streets.
The trees, the smile as they absorb the
moisture their brittle bones need.
Oh how I pitied the trees,
when the cold stripped and broke their branches
my heart grew sorrowful & weak.
The deserve to be enveloped, by this
unplanned storm.
All in the world, would agree when I say
that we are blessed
with this warm April rain
it was just beautiful last night, from my room that is
A drenched, rugged mutt pads wearily along the side of the freeway.

He lifts his hooded face to reveal a young, bearded man- walking lopsidedly and ***** underneath the blacken sky. Who opened her bursting ***** to let down a million tiny droplets soaking him head to toe, and hes's got nowhere to go.

His face like an angel; still young, maybe only eighteen
with deep golden, chestnut eyes and long untameable
ash tinted hair. He'll never see himself as more than a ****** up, cold hearted ******* whose broken many and ultimately has paid his hell,  
by breaking himself.

The truth, couldn't be any farther than that.

Headphones stringing (both ears), from the inside of his semi-dry clothing  to a cell phone which resides inside his left jean pocket.
A musician, a drummer, he examines each song meticulously- every detail, analyzed- memorized.  And so, he keeps himself sane
counting the beats in his head, when he's walking through the rain.

*I'm grateful for whatever life may bring our way, as long as you're by my side on my dying day.
just about a friend. Some people we feel so much love for, so much appreciation because they have such a light in their eyes. He's one of these people for me. He's always been, I love that light I see in his eyes- no matter how dim sometimes... it's always there.
He carries remnants of a broken child.
Cradles the pieces as he tries
To silence the echoing cries.
He provides love with strong tight hugs
But the pressure isn't enough.
He can't continue on nurturing himself.
Usually when you
Think of nights, folks
You think of a full moon
Being in the sky
But there's nothing
But total darkness

{ Weasel }
True!
There's no full moon tonight here where I live.
Poem 16
© The Weasel.
All rights reserved.
Blue
is the color of the mid-morning sky
dotted with the white
of lumpy clouds
with rainstorms in their bellies
Soon the blue
of the smiling horizon
will be gray.

Blue
is the color of the open sea
swathed in undulations
of the ebbing waves
with destruction in their fingertips
Soon the blue
of the endless waters
will be a fist.

Blue
is the color of a bruise
shaded with the subtle purple
of failing light
with darkness crawling through the edges
Soon the blue
of abandoned rage
will be everywhere.
04/08/14
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