It rained again today,
Like yesterday.
Not that you would care --
I'm sure you have much more important things to think about --
But apparently, I don't.
I've been staring out the window
Since the rain started
Last week.

There's something entrancing about the steady downpour,
How it gathers into pools on the earth,
Which continuously grow and overflow,
And which never seem to absorb
Into the soggy ground
Or evaporate into the cold, damp air.
It's like the tears that flowed from her eyes,
How they gathered into pools on my arms.
I felt the warm liquid growing and overflowing
As I stared into the rain.

The tears stopped.
They're poisonous, you see,
And she knows this, so she stopped them.
Held the poison inside herself,
For me.

But the rain never stops.
It continues, despite my most earnest wishes,
Despite my pleadings,
Despite my prayers.
It continues,
Gathering in pools, which grow and overflow,
And never seem to absorb or evaporate
Because the ground is soggy
And the air is cold and damp.
I think that's why, at least --
Not that it matters.
I stopped caring why long ago;
Now, I just watch the rain.

I can hardly even remember when it started.
Was it really last week?
I don't think so --
It doesn't feel like it.
I... I can't remember the sun.
I can't remember its warmth
Or its color.
Did it smell?
No, I don't think so.
I can't remember where it was
Or who made it.
Was it God?
No, I don't think so.

And so I stare out the window,
Watching,
Wishing the rain would stop,
But it will never stop.
The poison, pouring, from the clouds,
And into my heart.

I hate the rain.

A soldier without a name.

In the throes of war, a soldier can't stop to let his emotions settle and sift through his story to find the facts.  He wades through waist-deep pools of politics and perjury, surrounded by the fog of fatigue and fear, and when the bullets and bombs appear out of the blanketed haze he shoots and runs and hides and prays that he'll make it out of this battle and see his family again and before he takes a breath it's over.

And his friend is dead at his feet.

We Never Saw the Rainbow

When our generation was born,
We were given a box of crayons
And sternly instructed
To create any picture
We could imagine.

So we opened the box
To gaze at its glorious colors,
But when we peered inside
The crayons were almost gone.
Broken, worn, discarded, and destroyed,
They spoke nothing to our artists' hearts
But death.

Commanded by our fathers,
Enchained by their legacies,
We gathered the fragmented pieces,
Brought together our hands,
And wrote a note:

It told the end of our lives.

The fragile and fragmented pieces
Cramped and collapsed
Under weight of
Our heavy hearts and hands,
Which slowly succumbed to
Disease and decay --
As we watched our colors diminish
And die.

But we pressed on.

Starving, sweating, and crying,
We wrote until our end was written,
And collapsed
On bloody hands and broken knees.
And we cried to God --
That his next child might heed
Our epitaph.