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A kindly angel found me in the rain

but did not have the power to rescind

the darkness, or the dampness, or the pain,

or all the cold that came with all the wind.

Though he would not now fail me, even so,

and raised his voice into a pleasant song.

(In truth, it wasn’t quite a perfect show,

and he had not the strength to sing that long)

Still, while his meek performance wasn’t much,

it pierced the cloudy canopy ahead.

A ray fell down from heaven that could touch

the weary and the worn, dying and dead.

This is what happened once when a friend shared

a song with me. I’m glad that angel dared.

~~~

A raindrop I have never met was swept,

by winds quite similar to those I know,

into the room opposite mine, and slept

on quite a similar tear-drunk pillow.

That pillow lives in unit twenty six,

and I in unit twenty five reside.

Her woes are just as mine, but we don’t mix,

despite our bedrooms being side by side.

We are two raindrops on one windowsill,

and we, two, share one wall that’s stained with mud,

And mix we with that mud each day, until

our drops are meddled dirty, dark as blood.

Her window is as rain-stained as is mine,

too bad our drops will never intertwine.