So many little clouds of truth pass,
Your mind through mine, mine through yours,
As they always do—drops form, it rains, giving life to a dried up plain.
Renewal, the golden rule of preservation.
The darkest, blackest cloud now hangs,
Neither yours nor mine, yet somehow it is ours,
To share, to bear, to weather, to wear.
In the thinnest air, breath opens, the senses attune to fated song.
Bodies dance, some free, some fight.
The night we first met, I fought fate back down, intending to put out,
To drown, with fiery, emblazoned ax swings of ferocity,
Now I fight only for us to be free.
Let it rain.