Poetry

It has rained all day,
the wetness is a living thing, cold
its clammy touch wispy everywhere air
like the dull dead light
in snake-lidded comatose eyes
an indolent, endless weep.

Far from the dripping panicles
of the all-seeing leaves,
distant from the refuge of trees,
untouched by the soaked skin of earth
my eyes are dry
for whom do these skies, so cry?

In whimsy, why do these words come to me
bedraggled by the damp smelling must of a dogged past,
that no deluge can wash, have I not cried enough,
for loves that were never mine?
What requiem will they write
for this epic defeat of my emptiness?