Rain

The pitter patter of
Earth’s depression is
undulating outside my 
doorway, and still I lie
as the dead on a bed
of blankets and regret

– I can still hear the 
birds chirping spring 

and so they sing to
the trees in hopes of
curing the melancholy,
and I wait in the halls
in hopes to hear the
creak of a door, or
perhaps a call for an
existence that means
something more than
just the fall. 

– B. 

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