the Therrain
London is even busier in the rain. Does that make sense? No, not really. I wonder what it feels like to get rid of this place, and when I do, Wonder what it feels like to belong somehome. Where am I supposed to go? That's why we all look for someone to love and be loved by.
London is further scattered in this rain, here there's no sun for acknowledgment, no heather for a timeless place; Timeless only because it's always in a race. What it feel like to seamlessly scower in the relentlessness stream they make belong to them. Why I am here in spatial-less existence.
And where are you now?
Somewhere among the flowers and poppy seeds, I imagine
I imagine you flowered in light and in
Laughter you only cry in mirrors of dropping shades like buckets of water.
Somewhere here too! Maybe.
Among the fathomless crowd I cannot bear nor enter.
So in the palms of my trembling hands I gather the rain as though to catch you up.
How are you supposed to be found there, and I here? When, I put my thumb down on myself and even I squirmed from myself to dissapear.
We're same but so different as to where our steps prop and half-deliberately land, or where they would if our hands were on hand to reach and meet- for our hearts to catch.
Anyways, my sister says a storm is coming
My way. But this is not my territory. My way sits strong on the coming therrain. Come, city that pours in growing. That the wind knows. That shelters us from traps and sinkholes, with totted (tented) paths of destruction to cleans. Say to me all those things I want to yell out at everybody else. Then soothe me over with rain. Translucent lucent rain. Let it express these feelings I have found unburied by the no means of my chest: my words, my tongue, the crest on my eyes and fingertips. Until I can bathe again, this is my infinitesimal infinite place of solace.
Wash my face in the tears of the universe that understands that I am inside- how easy it would be to not be this on this side- that I store in-side, like people we love.
Cratered in this world I am but can never seem to feel the bellow of the soft and cushioned pillow I am to rest my head on, my sleepy eyes hollow filled with grateful acknowledgment to say the least.
The pillow I've tended to apply thorns was because I never managed to make this constant set: Home as honest as. Yet I experienced it: this isnít quite it. Almost. The battered word for just not getting there.
London is busy under this type of day: of rain.
Loud by itself and silent with the wind,
Edifices built where puddles curve into the terrain,
Soothed heart by the downpours that cool anxious hearts.
To normalcy: what they really want. It's in their necessity:
I am sovereignly calmer.
A place where the rain can land and keep reavealing
The whole interchanging interplaying
Scape of things.