This rain
falling from grace
doesn’t cleanse.
It is an
acrid, acidic,
biting, bitter thing,
searing my soul,
leaving blisters as it
burns.
It is neither
purging nor purifying,
just a rage that caught
the dusty detritus
of a life lived
alone,
aloof,
apart,
yet with a longing
for vibrant passion.
A life weary with isolation,
abandoned tradition,
and sad resignation.
Unable to rise
from its own ashes,
it covers itself in them,
and tells me everything
will be fine.
Beyond Panic 