Monday, June 4, 2007

Rain, 22 April 1972

Rain; but are the cliches all the same? I hold on
to the present with rainy-wet fingers
slipping, slipping - will I fall? Oh tears, tears
go away - come again another day
when I've grown brave enough to cry; when my eyes
have had a time in which to dry - ceaseless,
the rain has fallen since early morniing; and now
into night - I feel no promise or hope
of spring, nor see a new year's growth or life
renewed. Each flower that grows comes out of sod
and mocks this life, this flesh but less than a flower,
I will some day lie as nothing beneeath
this very ground - Rain. While I still live but once - just once -
wash the muddy horror of death away -

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