When the rains fall,

When the rains fall,

Anaemic skies

Are bloodless.

Anything I thought was vibrant

Is flushed away.

Every sound I ever heard

Is second-hand.

Just like the idea

Of writing something wonderful.

What kind of fool am I?

Nobody knows what it feels like

To be me.

But the kicker is

I don’t know

What it feels like to be them.

When the rains fall,

Wiping slates clean

Making ready

For new days

To start over,

If I had a penny for every time

To make a change

I would have enough

To run away.

Shaking off an old skin

Barely thick enough

To keep out the cold.

Shedding an old one

Just to grow another

With nary a difference

In perception

Between the two.

The same fallibilities

And imperfections

Germinate

Proliferate.

Old mistakes

Waiting to happen,

I oblige them.

I am nothing if not imperfect

Mordant, self-absorbed

And bloodless,

When the rains fall.