Perhaps the storms are simply meant to rouse our inner empowerment,
faraway rumbles culminating into the now, waking from hibernation the reminder of the how,
for fate is passive sitting ducks, and destiny the arms in the winds resurrecting the self up,
believing in the achieving part of dreams, rousing the soul to with that single bird, despite the conditions,
I dance in the rain, and the bird wishes it were me; we chat about exchanging wings and feet but decide each are intentionally meant to propel, and here we are together celebrating freedom from cage and cell.
Moments drip drop, first molecules floating to fall, and when the basin is filled, our time is up.
Let me taste each one individually upon my upturned mouth.
May I spend the least amount in flood or drought, paned, sheltered or drowned.
Let me feel it all though; to offer an umbrella or call me inside is to deny me each elixir dose to my soul’s life.
Moments shared with others, even fleeting in passing, make up the ocean of emotion that fills and propels me most deeply.
When the last sun sets, I know I cannot take any drops with even though they became a part of my very composition, but heaven is in the clouds for a reason, and I believe from these drops within, another birthing will begin…
May I never lose my way to getting lost, may I never resist the urge to leave it all, may I never shelter my face from the storm, may I never let my arms fall in the downpour, may I never fully wash off the grit of the sand, and may I never be restrained by clock or human hand.
May I never negotiate with my soul: may I never let anyone close the window.
Rain and storms, natural parts of the cycle; why do I let them sometimes level me? Perhaps it’s the blindsiding. What if I had a service to alert when my past in shallow puddles lurks? Tentacles too quickly encircle around my ankle– down the rabbit hole again. Yet even then, I know from experience, the falls are physically harmless. What’s another puncture in a wound unable to be seen? Though no bodily pain I’ve ever known makes me so heavily internally bleed out. Hemorrhaging soul. Still, it is inevitable: the weather changes back again every time. What’s left behind? A piece I bury, not of me, but a part of the repetition of unhealthy; one less tentacle grows back, unable to regenerate. One by one, I slay them, and the only way to pass through the portal is through those puddles, so I brace for the rain.
Concrete cannot barricade my imagination from its escape; especially on rainy days, I paint with puddles like Van Gogh and Monet – bright colors, ocean waves, always naturescapes, to keep from drowning in the daily mundane.
Concrete cannot barricade dreams that refuse to fade to gray.