Adrift In Rain Puddles
Darkness is darkest
beyond the wan street lights,
and yet the rain still falls through it.
With every gust the acacia trembles,
sways its branches imploringly,
its leaves pulled down, torn,
randomly strewn
on the puddles
below.
My fingertips ache
and falter on these guitar frets,
but my head sings on and on:
"maybe the old song can
bring back the old times,"
as torn pieces of the card
she sent me drift about
in the puddles
below.
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