On The Night Of The Rains, Water Was Oozing Out From The Sky'S Swollen Stitches, A Rash Developed Across The Meaning Of The Heavens. The Wooden Floors Of My Attic Place Strove For A Deeper Tone, A Hoarse Calling Grew Louder As I Paced Trying To See Rain. I Followed The Gravity Of The Treasure Hunt Where Each Bounce Meant A Slap Across A Table Top Of Tension, Where The Window Basted Winter Black Rain And Silence Paid Another Call. I Am As Much As This Water Flower, Rain. I Am As Impressionable As The City That Stops For Rain. And I Lack The Same Substance That Dooms Water To Be A Soft Pillow Feather; Excepting This, I May Still Shatter This Thing, March Routine Existence By Dabbling In Destruction.