POUR NEWNESS ON ME
Washing away drab, dour and rotting
elements, falling rains cleanse our earth anew.
Sunlight returns to beam upon fresh, crisp nature.
I have begged the rain to pour newness on me
but never does it heed my plea or grace my need.
Rain, I desperately beseech you, please, as a cloud
do burst a purge of all thunderous fear, stormy,
stinging pain and anxiety tidal waves
continuously knocking me down.
The sun will never warm me with healing,
soothing rays if the rain never floods my concrete
dam of depression, freeing my life’s stream to
flow with deep content.
Though the rain denies me relief, it keeps
me company, for its dark skies match my
inner gray, dreary season and give me proper
reasons to shelter in isolation.
On rainy days, I may pretend that I am part of
life, rather than a human drought of
withering, mortal inertia.
I may even, fleetingly, allow myself to believe
the returning sun will spot the drenched
me and, in either mercy or love, revive,
refresh and restore my drowning, soggy
spirit with rays of therapeutic warmth.
If only thunder would crack, roar and screech a
demand for skies to pour suicide ideology drops
down in a loud, rhythmic, lulling beat, such drops
would, in time, evaporate and I would realize
the blessing of a true, deep, restful sleep.
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