Listen to the rain fall with a jocund patter
on silver panes casting a velvet clatter aloof
of daily concerns of men, women, and beast.
Listen to it come in a breath so still
whetting stone on cold dale and blazing hill.
Listen to the rain fall in your sodden heart
falling gracefully in a graceless part of you
plagued by clear panes of silver-white light
and tear stained like porcelain cheeks
of stone cherubs crying, crying for weeks.
Listen to the rain fall upon your weary roof
of moss-stained tiles hanging aloof of your
strife and cold-splintered heart in your hearth
of washed down charcoal consumed in dirt
under vacant existence, a time called hurt.
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image from: https://i.ytimg.com/vi/KP0Ajx4SKMQ/hqdefault.jpg