Visit

I sat there looking out of the window as the scene unfolds.

Tears from heaven reminding me that by each drop a new story would be told.

Some fell on houses like hugs from an old friend,

Kissing each pane like “mum I cut my finger make it well again.”

It made me wonder if reincarnation could be real.

The rain was new born from the sky but touched the ground with an older feel.

The houses, new formed from rocks of past selves where ancestors ate their meals.

All of a sudden the world felt all too familiar.

Gold lights highlighting bright ideas of questions questioning questions, with no answers as the rain kept telling stories.

Stories of blurred visions as cars would collide.

Playing bumper cars on busy streets to paint the town red for a bit of fun,

While dry throats would sing praises as thirst cried out in death, it would be back with the mourning sun.

Some say WHY,  some say We Have Yet to know.

Maybe we are like the rain, how many times have we be told?

@Sorom_tbte

Image by: www.artsbykay.co.uk