Rain

Where is her confidence
when she needs
to hear it all?

Do you love me?
How much do you love me?
Why do you love me?
Do you really love me?

She explains that in her pain
she really needs it, wants it,
has to have it, and she hopes
that I don't mind.

I can understand
the nature of the beast.
She turns around
and heads on out
and floats
into the cosmos.

"You don't mind?"
she asks again,
already in full swing.

She drowns out
the music with a bass
that pounds the walls
and wails
and calls
and asks an infinite
number of questions
concerning
the lust of dust
and the host
of the heavenly theater.

Her gesticulations
sidle slide and slip;
her bridle whips its
mantled mane
and baths me
in her essence.

She's not broken,
and her wings are working
perfectly,
an Angel
with a grasp
of the significance
of rain.

runningturtle87