It Rains When I Write
A cloud of thought looms over my sky;
The sky is a backdrop of blooming lilac,
With smoke and dandelion puffs chasing the light,
Cleaving asunder this monochromatic horizon.
Sprung from memories, another cloud nudges
That estranged, numb cloud.
Filtering its burnt down tentacles,
And entwining it into something sinister.
These clouds fight, coalesce and drift apart ,
Simmering and condensing my copper sky.
For my chocolate hands and linen lips
Couldn't forge them into the carcass of my life.
It is painful when there's only infernal light,
Blinding and charring my ambivalent soul.
Feels unforgivable when the birds I chase die,
Before I can free them to chain others.
I don't know if I want them to take over me,
Or to abandon me as I did to their feathers.
I can't tell if I need them to be my voice,
Or myself to be their unfinished stories.
But my hand touches the sheaf of papers,
The rivulets of ink scarring that lilac sky now.
For light and darkness have breathed together,
To reverse back into their primal selves.
And within the shell of my existence,
Articulating in my veins, purging my eyes,
Words escape like blue paper planes,
As they morph into fireflies and die as black swans.
And so it finally rains,
It finally rains when I write.
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