The Rainstone
A heavy stone carved out of
falling rain,
It sits upon the center of your
palm.
It has no weight, yet leaves a
bruise of pain,
A freezing spark that keeps
the spirit calm.
You press it to your lip and
taste the dust
Of clouds that never learned
how to condense.
You smell the iron scent of
solar rust,
And hear the silent scream of
absent sense.
It is a door that opens as a
wall,
A solid ghost that anchors
down the sky.
You hold the truth of nothing
in the fall,
And watch the solid truth
begin to fly.
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