Drip Drops Won't Beckon
Everyone writes poems when it rains,So they say.
The soaking bulbs of glass,
The acid ~ spitting drips.
It must inspire when a cloud cries down to the Earch,
Pouting and bawling like a baby
In shock after falling into gravel,
Pens scratch brilliantly while others suffer.
No exception for Mother Nature.
Her wet emerald eyes
Are fair game
I spend no time doodling
When the sky bursts
To pieces,
No solace comes
In the catharsis of post ~ rain
No, my chest doesn't heave in relief,
And I pay no mind to muddy overcast
Only by chance does it rain when I write.
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