It's April,
and I'm drunk again
My addiction runs solely on the
polished appeal of wet asphalt,
somber, dark gray clouds,
and cackling thunder vaults
Lightning cascades down
brighter than the strike of midnight,
rejuvenating a buoyant life inside me and my bones
who have laid dormant like idle knights
When the marching commences,
Thousands upon thousands of droplets
descend downward from their post
to flood, to cleanse, to shed
I hear maddening armies of water
harshly smack roof shingles and window panes,
hoping they might crack a hole in the ceiling
to also drag me away
My eyes are lured to the outside battlefield
where clear bulbs have saturated the ground
to make a glistening aftermath,
and I feel my senses suddenly drown
I savor the birth of solitude alone,
because rain deters most people,
and see gloomy tones appear
on my love-parched easel
Yet, there's something intimate about falling rain,
as if I too am falling alongside it,
so I find myself aching for the
sweet cacophony of screaming terrain
April reels me close
once I'm caught in it's slippery grip,
with my heart beating slowly and
lungs dripping wet
My ashy lips drink its power in heaping spoonfuls
because the sun is just so arid,
and my skin is sewn together
from the liquid that isn't as barren
April comes 'round every year,
but rain not as often;
this matted, dreary landscape you call annoying
is a paradise I will never stop wanting
up until I'm laid in my coffin
