The rain falls like it does each year.
It takes away all you held dear,
It washes the soul with age
(If there is a soul to assuage),
It leaves damp, sweat, mosquitoes,
It brings forgotten fevered woes,
It blots out the sun with panels of grey…
Do you pretend to like things this way?

Some say the mind is a pale full moon,
Twirling to an erratic tune,
Played by some lunatic in a room,
Driven from hope born from who knows whom…

The rain stops like an unfaithful lover
Nothing old to save nothing new to discover.

Then pretend you love that barren moon:
Find two legs to dance to that tune,
Til you find the haunted soul who starts it all,
Lead him to a grave, cut his throat, let him fall.


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