The outline of a building is obscured by rain,
Drops are ricocheting in an aura of pain.
Stumbling and dying, petals fall to the dark ground;
After the wet torment, there is no trace of sound.
A distant crowing feeling seems to touch my skin,
My eyes hear spirals of wings fluttering in sin.
Perceived ill facts are processed differently for us,
Plasticity of senses prevents further loss.
Tendency to argue in favor of a foe,
Sprouts up from purged ideas you just refuse to know.
The rain starts again from eyelashes to sewer...
Wind blows muddy petals and treads over the pure.
Copyright © Luminita Stoica | Year Posted 2010