The rain splashes down, seeping into the thirsty earth.
Cars swerve with tension as the drivers cringe in apprehension.
Lily and Jb, the house’s monsters, pace around the mud filled lawn, acting as prison guards of their helpless prey.
She sleeps, the depression of the decade fermenting further as the sky darkens.
Her son plays, alone and without sincerity. He too is a guard-watching to see movement in the mother he can’t seem to protect from her inside sadness.
The gangly one skimps around, feeding the mouths of her peers. Not one rain drop will cease her exasperated plea for acceptance. They call in one voice and she bows with wide and eager eyes.
I see them circling around, functioning as if they lie on a conveyor belt.
Task after task seems to occur with a struggle.
A struggle to fit, to feel, to enjoy and to hope.To hope for a break from the hell of the reality they have chosen to write.
I’m not on that conveyor belt. I fell off when I couldn’t give the world it’s wants. The ride of the belt was too empty and sterile for me. All procedure, stealing the souls of the riders.
I’m waiting for them to fall as well. It’s nice off the track.
They see and feel only what is, yet they fail to see what could be.
The rain falls.
I watch in patience.
If only we all saw the rain.