I Watched the Heavens Bleed

One day, behind the summer leaves, 
spellbound, I watched the heavens bleed. 
The sky was fainting, whitening, 
and feeble, yet it soaked the trees. 
A darling little groan of pain 
did cross the gray, suburban plain - 
so easily, it hardly rang 
though gallons graced my windowpane; 
so feasibly, it stung to watch 
the useless gore in gutters slosh. 
  
It bled in endless quantities, 
over flowers, roads, and weeds - 
it seemed to shrug infinity 
off shoulders smug; indeed, in sweet, 
unheeded waves, it drowned the streets 
and rounded stop-sign river reeds: 
blood rushed as if the earth had called, 
had long implored for blood to fall. 
  
How can a storm's heart beat and heave   
its essence out in ceaseless streams? - 
and why, I ask, is rain not red 
or proud to show the sky has shed 
a life and death in every drop 
and somehow, still, has never stopped? 
How, dry the earth, does it live on 
to strike in sand a thousand songs, 
  
and each with melodies so sweet, 
for rain the listless world entreats? 
  
The answer swells inside my head; 
it still will not be heaven-bled.

This poem is about: 
Me
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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