The Rain Does Not Like The Poor

I sat outside my house, to avoid its inside

       and be alone to think. I like to think

       you see. I like to understand. 

The clouds decide to join me, to be part 

       of my thoughts. Hesitantly, I approve and

       they greet me.

The clouds are pure; I wonder why 

      they come to my slum. So quiet they are,

      so delicate they look at first.

The rich clouds then turn gray, a gray so dark

      and threatening. I wonder what 

      I've done to be their victim.

I fall to my knees, and stare at the 

      blank gray sky which is eager to

      let go of its frustration down on me.

And I spoke softly to it, my words fearing

      the thunderous clouds. My words mean

      nothing and down comes its wrath.

Laughing as the holes invite the drops into

      my slum and the cracks to be full of

      its tears. It laughs at me. 

It roars to let me know its done for now

      but it would come back for me to show

      its descendancy over me.