Something about the rain.
I think more, I feel more
I get lost inside, hours pass by.
Something about the wind too.
I'll wrap my arms around myself
to lessen the eerie chill of solitude.
Meanwhile, that wishful silhouette
appears more as night thickens.
So days and nights become one
and then, right on time, the other
over and over, and we expect this
we know it's coming by the hands'
hourly movements. We anticipate
its beginning and its end, and there
is comfort in such predictions.
But how then can there be comfort
with the absence of tell-tale signs
or precursors that notify us?
And what if it never comes
and we spend eternity waiting
for an inclining of its fabrication,
materialization; an incarnate being
who wonders so much of the same?
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