Petrichor

What we once fully embraced on our young skin

Is now what we retract from at first contact.

What we once tipped our heads to the heavens above for

We now bow our heads down as if in a prayer.

But there is nothing holy in the way we run from the crying heavens.

They are not tears at all,

But the blood of the Gods

And we act as if it’s acid.

It gives us life but so often we reject

And despise it.

But as everyone of us dies

We let one last prayer slip through our lips.

Like a ghost it asks for

One last drop.