It used to rain, but it does no more,
A viciousness that was self-implored.
Deplored and abhorred, like your weren't aware,
Of the untimely demise of those righteous heirs.
Abstaining from their fragrances,
These fragile beings of the seeds you’ve sewn,
Snapping heads back with your most peculiar of jokes.
In an essence, insurmountable. Enchanted so aloof,
Insane and inconsistent and always on the move.
It rains down from the valleys where the echoes for tonight bellow,
It drowns out the sorrows of those robed in dark stained yellows.
Droplets of choices and voices, a suspected absence,
Miraculous perspectives viewed from the heights of suspense.
Fever of fervor where their ties choke their necks,
Recklessly endangered with the usual impudence of men.
Must it be this, a wayward choice?
This infinity of philosophy of a battered and unbandaged voice.
It rains on us and it rains hard indeed,
It breathes in the evil as quickly as it releases.
Frigid, obnoxious so sacredly scarred,
Factious and malicious and miraculously discarded.
Lessons of lesions where there’s no answered to be fed,
A miracle of sorts, avenues of the mind and valleys within the head.
Case in point: a place of rain, a sidewalk café,
Harboring the ghosts that of another day.
Let these images dissipate like a fog,
For matter is bound by man’s most basic of laws.
It rained hard today, and in practice patterns will follow,
For tomorrow it rains down just as hard,
And just as today, the same pain is merely swallowed.
Anthony K. Rosales