The Rain





He wavered, 

A carved hand brushing against dry, split lips,

Parched beyond measure, he blinked up at the folding sky,

Lifeless eyes awaiting a promise,

Which tiptoed eventually,

Like needles mocking glass,

Darkening the ground with it’s whisper,

So that the man could hear,

And find solace in the silence,

Of new seed breaking ground,

Old rivers running anew,

Dying breaths finding​ again,

Moments of living few.











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