Showered upon, I kiss dampness,
The recesses my heart portrayed,
As rainbows after such wetness,
From which I always quickly strayed.
Inside my head, brain sopping wet,
A thought threatens to take its form,
As I struggle and think “Not yet, ”
Soon a prisoner of the storm.
As we burn pages of this book,
The fire fades and dies with haste,
Standing in a cranny, a nook,
Please, please, this cannot be a waste.
The fire finally dies, besides…
So we diligently pray,
And give our thoughts to she who cries,
All this will be a dream, someday.