"I possess nothing but my body; a man on his own, with nothing but his body, can't stop memories; they pass through him. I shouldn't complain: all I have ever wanted was to be free" -Antoine Roquentin, in Sartre's Nausea.

Monday, May 30, 2011

Post Midnight Rain

Night befallen, I lay in bed.
So calm in silence.
I'm in the sea of tranquility- 
its existence oft unknown to me.
My eyes closed,
sounds echo in the depths of my caverns.
The drops of the shy rain 
hiss in unison- their
constant downfall mitigate their drumming.
A crash on the ground silenced
by the next one, a pound.

I imagine them travelling up my window,
their footsteps subtle knocks, but
they slip and never reach the top,
dragging their delicate bodies down
until they finally drip and hit the floor.

As the clouds disappear in the dark light,
drops cease to visit
and footsteps' traces 
disappear.

The sole reminder of this late night shower
are the synchronised tangs that
hit the roof above.
A metallic splatter that reverberates,
in time too will slowly fade 
aft into sleep I'll have succumbed,
vistim of its ticks.

Rains forgotten, even
before they've gone.No trace to be left.
Its remnants heated by the early rays of sun.

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