The rain

Weird is this rain,

The writer’s muse,

Leading my rusting pen

To glide on the parchment.


But why is this pain,

Infused with longing,

Or is just my perturbation,

Dissolving in your phrenic rhythm


Why is this music of yours

My rain, more pleasant,

Than any musical instrument

Could ever encipher.


Or a poets poignant mind

Bewitched by your tattle,

Why are you so soothing

Yet so longing


Let not this feeling

Inbound in the chasm of my heart

I know nay its meaning,

Yet so perplexing


You clatter on the rooftops

Trampling and giggling,

Dancing to the thunder

Under the spot lights of the lighting


And this restlessness,

You do make me crave

My dear Rainstorm

be unfettered as you are


To shed my inhibitions

Into which I am chained

By the constraints of my own mind

That devours me every passing day


The sky is grumbling ,

You pay no heed

Nor do you care about

The low rumble of the Clouds


You squeal and glide

With the low whistle of the wind

As you pour down on earth,

Tapping on my window sill


Tears of the sky

Are you my rain?

Mature and filled with longing

Or the wonderful pixie who knocks of my window sill.

6 thoughts on “The rain

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