Stream of Consciousness

Felt Like Rain

There was a time, but only a moment, 

when you could be blatant but clever. 

it was when the winds were still, 

trying not to stir the dances of mirrors, 

reflecting what we do not see for ourselves; 

 reflecting the hidden. 

The skies were gray, and the darkening clouds 

 of late noon were the same as midnight. 

And it felt like rain. 

No snow or hail- where a hulking cloud drifting so low 

can only give a glimpse as to what would come. 

They all wanted to dance and play, 

 and laugh in a bed of green. 

So you could not deny a sense of love, 

 and you felt like rain. 

It does not spray, or mist, or sprinkle 

like on the grass in summer. But came down on us. 

Nothing else worth waking up to, 

or staying inside for, or drifting to sleep in. 

The creatures will hide below in their cover, 

while the birds in the sky find shade from the showers. 

Nothing else worth listening to, 

 in the dark, in the warmth. 

Where nothing outside holds shelter, 

 but ends up as extra showers 

when we have nothing else to do, 

 and we felt like rain.

There truly is no darkness, 

 no separation of language; 

all of it is just a dream. Not a bad dream, 

but still dark and we can see, we see lights, 

mountains, fields, rain, and music. 

But there are no people, or the moon, 

 or machines, or time, 

for they are a part of the dream. 

No thirst, or words, or hate. 

Because it felt like rain. 

There are the earth people. 

Their salty tears melt into the acidic drops. 

Their coats are blackened water, 

 but it is good. No other description. 

They are not deceived, and they adore the rain. 

It tells them stories, and they are never forgotten. 

And they felt like rain. 

I try to forget the things I see in their faces, 

sitting amongst the dampened grass with the sweet scent, 

lighting me in flames, 

 then putting me out when I lay back. 

There is no one else, and I roll around and laugh awhile. 

No weight of the world holds me, yet I see the clouds. 

They are not harmful, and I am not cold. 

No worries, or fears, or grief, or pain, 

 or lonesomeness, or time. 

The sky never ends in the east or the west, 

 or the north or the south. 

Nothing comes up to me and bothers me 

 because I can't be bothered. 

I am dreaming and I am sleeping, 

 and I slept awhile, 

because I felt like rain. 

Then there was a time, but only a moment, 

when you could be blatant but clever. 

 It was when the winds were still, 

trying not to stir the dances of mirrors, 

reflecting what we do not see for ourselves; 

 reflecting the hidden. 

The skies were gray, and the darkening clouds 

 of late noon were the same as midnight. 

And then there was rain.