The Rain Poem by GRANT FRASER

The rain comes down
like drops of despair,

it's the air,
or not there,
now,
somehow...

but it pours down
the hidden walls,

you are inside, it is,
there, thrusting itself
down onto the ground,

like some angry person
fed up of not giving,
and knowing full well
that old age, is underway,

the rain writes traces
down across glass,
makes big faces at the past...

and time is waiting waiting
excavating...
making a perfect hole
in your head,
for you to lay out in,

one big empty photograph
of nothing left,
but pathways & haunts,
and a black box,
which didn't flash!

The rain comes down
like drops of despair...

and you clutch
the swivel white arm
of the stool,

after stuffing yourself
with nothing new,
between blue reading glass...

there has to be better
ways to die living?

nailing seconds
down,
onto every feint sound,
or of a curious silence,
blasting us to bits...

life is pale white
sheen of hidden notches,
a blank paper look
bursting with acknowledges,

as the dribbles reaches
our fingers,
teaches, our tongue trapped,
melts on our pimply thighs,
a scud of parts, ambling...

The rain comes down
like drops of despair...