rain
By Angela Du
the sky is a blanket
a knitted, grey quilt
with just a few scattered spots in white.
and roses that wilted.
the trees don’t speak, not anymore,
just fall into the slow undoing
branches collapsing
not bothering to continue pursuing.
there’s no one here, and yet i stay,
a ghost lies still against the bark.
what once was green is washed in grey,
what once was flame is barely spark.
the wood in the bonfire
is soggy now
no one to shelter it from the rain.
how?
how can i keep staying here
how can i keep watching everything i’ve ever known
fall apart?
the ferns are overgrown
they droop against the weight
of the rain
as it beats down on them
they let themselves be tortured,
bullied—
they don’t care anymore.
