From the Journal of Tititictilitics: "Rain of the Day"
The idea of "food for thought" forgets the meaning of thought. I think you, dear reader, deserves a nettoyant pour le palais. Bon Appétit.
From the belly of the sky, Where cotton giants twist and sigh, Comes not a whisper, but a roar, The rain, with tales it longs to pour.
Each drop, a tear the cloud has wept, A thousand fleeting sorrows kept, Too heavy now for air to hold, They tumble down, their story told.
They race like fingers on a pane, The world outside a blurry stain. The wind, their guide, it whips and moans, And thunder drums on weathered stone.
page revision: 3, last edited: 18 Mar 2024 19:15