When it starts to rain
falling down,
down,
down
from the Heavens,
people brandish their
umbrellas like the
grey, cold sky is an
approaching army
and their umbrellas
are shields and they are
practicing phalanx
formations without
a conscious knowing.
They huddle beneath
umbrellas like the
rain is hot acid,
burning and turning
hard-earned dreams to a
whispered nothing, as
easily forgot
as said in an ear.

But not me. I want
to always forget
my hampering, black
umbrella at home,
so the rains pour down
and the rains may wash
away all remnants
of society.
I want to lift my
eyes to the Heavens,
to catch a glimpse of
a singing angel.
Want to raise my arms
skyward, so that I
may cup a fallen
star in my calloused
hands, and watch it light
the way for future
generations. I
want to kiss raindrops
and get utterly
drenched in their beauty.

I may lose my train
of thought to pirates,
and ancient soldiers
may shoot their arrows
and pierce rainy hearts,
and I may be burned,
and dreams may turn to
empty promises,
but I will have lived.