Rain
The years of running,
Are now of chase.
And the wise man, none the wiser
Than the age stains on his face.
Now the fall begets a fall,
And cataracts of reign.
Only time remains unhindered,
Only breath is left to chain.
It’s a breadcrumb, not a whole piece,
It’s a dig’ for digging a grave,
A short stick, a long hold,
The same chair, with new mold,
And no crook can save the shepherd
From blood thicker than his vein.
Once a landmark, now a landfill,
For the rusty stick to stand still,
For yellow grass, and bane boats,
Turning waves to graves, to drain,
A small leak, to blood streams,
Of little hopes and pocket dreams.
Yet right by the edge of pain,
A water drop awaits the rain.
S.T.
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