When it rains, there is smoke. It clutters the mind, the eye.
Fresh plumes issue forth with every incipient downpour, a concert of emotion wrestling within this consciousness.
When the rain comes, something dies. A hope, a light, a match.The drone of ceaseless activity prevail, yet within, something dies.
As the rain falls, so does the defenses, capitulating with the day. From frequent assault, the mortar is weakened, foundations shear, and slide.
Whilst it rains, hope if bereft, a shiny city, now washed clean. Gone, go the marks; the living, leave.
And so, it rains; and so it rains, rivulets of red. Vision dimmed by tumescent outcroppings; there is no salvation.
