The Encephalon

In the weeping midnight
part of the brain
something screams a prayer
for drought.
 
Deaf ears.  
 
It pours and pours
emotional storms
that are uncontrollable,
disastrous and they flood
over into other parts of life.  
 
Smiling while drowning.
 
Floating on tears,
a raft of sorts, made of memory trees
that the mind grew to keep you
prisoner in its web of rivers that  
lead only back to a past you're
trying to forget.