It Never Rains but Profundities Pour

Eyes peer from inside tiny raindrops. Warped and tortured faces
pry from behind the prism wall; colourful, pretty and benign. Screeching,
reaching and stretching arms vie for a place away from its very core
to the outer, fighting the elasticity, which suffocates them and their wants
while thin veneers hold them captive.

Subdued yearning pierces the thin skin and they bombard our senses fresh from their muted dreams. Dissipating onto our floor their ravenous spill mingles willingly with souls who have long since gone and flow in a languid wave of twitching people into the drains’ cavernous outreach only to be swept stoically into a gloom of a sombre journey that will end one day in some vast oceanic pool; only to begin again, someday, where someone will be waiting.

More downpours of lost hopes and twinkling, chiming wants pummel the ground. But as rain is rain and life is life and, not unlike like the weather, it often evaporates  on lazier, humid days, and its journey is stopped in our tracks.

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