Raindrops trickle paths down my window pane
dripping, streaming, reminding me of tears
blurring my world, enclosing me in pain,
always coming back, constant through my years.
Sunshine is a dream ended long ago.
Raindrops trickle paths down my window pane
drumming beats to a song I used to know.
Chorus moans at happiness on the wane.
Sweet remembrances deadened in my brain,
my window fogs, muting colors of life.
Raindrops trickle paths down my window pane
closing me in, suffocating in strife.
Only inner warmth can dispel the gloom
in soft breaths blown against the glassy pane
in clean circles to see beyond this room.
Raindrops trickle paths down my window pane.
The woman or man who is a poet, or fiction writer, or playwright, or all of these, is engaged constantly in a jazz ballet of vocabularies, passions, genders, histories, perspectives, death, love, and life. The music of revelation announces itself to
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very bluesy
enjoyed this very much!!!