There's a rock outside, and there are not enough names on it, and too many spiders. I wonder if it's raining. It is not raining here anymore, but it was raining. The chalk names were washed away by whatever poured from the sky. I used to recite the names written. Of my mom, my dad and my friends. But I can't remember what exactly was written. The period of time between when the names were written and when they weren't is not something I can conceive of. It might be something I do not want to imagine.
The thunder crashed. I find rain soothing, but it was not a soothing rain. It is not a soothing rain. As I see the rock, maybe a rock, maybe a mirage I've constructed, new names are written by shakier hands. I can't see my own. Hands. Or name.
People carry dry umbrellas. I can't make out their faces, just their shapes. Some are struck by lightning only to be turned into a pile of ashes. The ashes are swept away by gusts of wind, and there is no telling where the ashes left to. They went away, is what I'll tell you. I want to ask, "Why are you holding umbrellas?" because it is not raining anymore. It is not raining, but I do not believe that they realize.
"It is raining." one of them informs me. But it is not. Until I see the rock, and it is empty, and it is wet. And it is raining.
P.S this is supposed to be performed poetry/prose but ?? Eh
YOU ARE READING
Nosce te Ipsum
PoetryThis is a collection of poetry I have written. Free verse, Aubade, Couplets, Prose, and Laments. Probably some accidental Doggerels. Mostly I am posting this for my own enjoyment, but I hope others enjoy it as well. I will add more as I write m...
