the rainy day story

when we reach the end it will not matter whether we were right or wrong

the birds do not judge, they just sing the swan song

and the righteous still cling on to their flags of inconsequence

while the hurricane it sweeps all off the same

it is the story of that putrid, ghastly rain

that came and drove everyone insane

and each eye in it, it did contain the pain

but the tears were all lost in the rain

everyone that got drenched believed it was about them

some posted pictures of it to make it theirs

others wrote lines about it in their diaries that no one will read

others just stared at it from the comforts of their room

some went out in it to really feel it

but the rain belonged to none: neither those at a distance nor those in it

even the drops did not belong to it

it was the whole; it only contained the pieces

it lived in traces

apathetic to its glorification, or its abuse

indifferent to its recognition and the lack of it

it just did what it knew: poured.

and in its mere existence,

it contained stories.

stories that were of all yet belonged to none.

do you see the bigger picture?

it matters to us; yet it matters to none.

in each other’s memories, thoughts and stories: we are immortal.

in others’, we never existed.

but the story was never about us:

it was about the rain.

but the rain is us.

we are the rain.

we are the pain.

we are the story.

and in mine, you are still getting wet;

smiling a smile that does not reach your eyes.

and me? i don’t see myself but i do know my face betrayed my thoughts

i wanted to do things to make your smile reach your eyes

i wanted happiness in your eyes

that would make my rainy day;

the only god to whom i pray:

human.

and the ballad of the rainy day;

continues with its thunder and it’s mighty say

now i do not exist: i am beyond the place

you do not exist: you lost the way.

but the murky, treacherous weather continues on with its methods

the garrulous say they understand but they lie

all jokes are on the nose; the subtext is lost

only the loud get the applause

they say the previous generation is where the society peaked

but never explain the reason

the cement cannot hold on

it withers away with every season.

and even the crops have lost their freedom

they are made to grow in a line

while the stories in the rain get lost

in these sands of working man times.

maybe we should have kissed and never let go.

maybe the laughter at the family dinner table should have persisted a little longer

maybe we should have just stayed in the water on the beach

maybe, maybe we should have felt the rain and not just get drenched in it.