This spring, the sun hid from my face,
but the flowers still shone vibrantly.

The air reeked, staled for days, and was grotesque;
but the birds still sang.

It is May 23rd, and the cloud lingers solemnly.
1 time past a season.
65 degrees past lonely.

I'm waiting, but for what?
I'm not quite sure.

Closed, are the doors.
Please, close them some more.

These drops make beats, but each individually.
It is raining, but maybe, just over me.

I wish the rain could bounce off of me,
just like these leaves.

Even in refuge, I still seem to get drenched.
Yet, here I stay.

Seemingly, month after month,
Yet, day after day.

In the rain...

You're incapable of seeing anything clearly,
or even clearer.

Lost is your reflection,
You may look, but this is no mirror.

When it seems to have stopped,
you're still left with every damp memory,
soaking your thoughts...
until cleansed.

Then the wind comes alas, preaching again.
The windows close, people stay in.

Then it is still.
Still, but I see little circles surrounding me, again.