True Rain
Miniscule speckles of grey dust,
Encased within wet prison,
To us they look so beautiful,
Those poor little trapped grey balls,
Millions of them come each time,
All fighting to become free,
Their lives plummeting to the ground,
But of this we do not see,
They free fall hundreds of miles,
They fall from heaven to earth,
It's quite like a mass suicide,
That was planned from their very birth,
They have no choice of this sad death,
It is what they were born to do,
It's as if their whole purpose is,
To become huge puddles of blue,
We cannot control these deaths,
But we can imagine their pain,
So think of that next time you see,
The beauty that we call rain.
Copyright Kayla Yovich 2007
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