Ritual of the Rain

I always find the monsoons to wash over a longing. The rain falls. The rain fails. I keep the beads of expectation. I tell my failure. And we dance this ritual.

Can you tell the beads of raindrops? I tried. But they kept on falling. Photo by Mohammad Alizade on Unsplash

I thought the rain had a sense
a lasting breath or a touch of incense
but the drops left naught 
and I found my spirit on the fence.

I thought the rain had a sense
a frieze of now, a frigid past tense
but the moment was hot
and I found my feelings too intense.

I thought the rain had a sense
a flash, some vapour, vision pretence
but the fog was a blot
and I found my eyes in effulgence.

I thought the rain had a sense
a chemical romance, petrichor scent
but the rhythm was fraught
and I found my heart in penitence.

I thought the rain had a sense
a temper of the winds, blows prepense
but the gust was caught
and I found my skin flayed per cense. 

I thought the rain had a sense
a roaring applause, rumble suspense
but the thunder was wrought
and I found my ears in pain immense.

I thought the rain had a sense
a spirit, a god, imagination hence
but the peal was rot
and I found my voice lost in the dense.