Peep that it’s still raining.

The impact of him, Mr. Cirrus, is faint and minimal at most-
You see because I know exactly who he is and what he wants and there is no confusion
and in the grand scheme of the being of me he is nothing more than the past whispering a quiet hello as it comes and goes, dropping no lessons or impressions other than exposure to the truth from the sun.
He ain’t the one.
It’s still raining…
So the impact of him, Mr. Cumulus, is varied and wild and often a surprise.
You’ve seen him so you know, he is beautiful, every postcard says so and yet anything could be behind his eyes depending on the time of the night and your weight and his words and other obligations so there is always slight confusion
on what he meant and what he is doing but I know that he is always hiding whatever his true intentions are, when he comes and goes, potentially shading something and hovering over anything new that grows, so he can’t fool me at least.
Yet he ain’t the one.
it’s still raining…
The one blocks out the sun.
The one is the whole truth.
The one is an onslaught on the elderly and on the youth, on the party and on the parade, on the wishes and dreams that we made…in kisses and touches and verbally or virtually- so the fact is the impact of him, Mr. Nimbostratus, is unyielding and relentless. You see because his rain is continuous and impervious and never good for us, him or me or them or anything and it stays- there is no come and go, he teaches and he preaches and he scars regardless of if you ever try to know-he moves fast and slow-and he’s too heavy, he’s too persistent, and its obvious his existence is just for show- but there’s never any lightening…he doesn’t need none- he’s the one.

Ain’t no equals here…

And one would fear
if the rain
will ever


But no one around here knows.




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