Distractions: A Book of Poetry

Poems that I've written


46. Rainstorm

The sky is exploding

sending shards of shrapnel

down to Earth

Orbs of cold and wet

that burst on impact

and soak their target in tears

Pieces of shrapnel

skitter across the road

on legs made of fragility

Cold  and wet

Teardrops of the sky

Who is it that cries?

Who do they cry for?

Do they see the shadows

that many on Earth have become?

Do they weep because

we are devoured by darker times?

Are the tears, 

clear and cold,

pulled by the untimely arrival

of death to a young soul's side?

Do these weepers,

these beings who hide in the sky,

also suffer from

the dark diseases of life,

The mind-numbing drinks

And crazy-making smoke

And blood-hungry metal?

Why does no one weep for them

the way they weep for us?

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