Midnight rain drizzles
into puddles filling cracks in the pavement,
ripples dispersing lights reflected in them
as if colors are dancing in tribute
to the moon they will not see
until they tire and become still.
As déjà vu strikes another fiery soul
for a purpose no one knows,
not even the soul in repetition,
shut your eyes for fear of being blinded
by the scorching of dark
and tearing of sky’s fabric.
Remember what was said, for when
the same words must again be spoken
against the biting resistance,
these same words will be needed
but not as appreciated, as these same words
will have fallen from their meaning.
Is this the reason the shapes above
form and break and break and form
so to never be exact for too long?
Is this why the lights are thankful
their reflections are so effortlessly kept
so wildly unpredictable?
Perhaps normal would not be unwelcome
if the downpour was the sun,
or perhaps the sun has lost its meaning
in its quest to be far too reliable.
Truly, it is the unpredictable that is special
when it returns to grace us,
whenever this happens to be…
Whatever I Feels Like Writing 