I stepped onto the stoop, to assess the scene,
That lay outside, the roads were washed clean,
By the incessant deluge, that made the mad sane,
Drenched with the drug, we like to call rain.
I walked down the porch, onto the streets,
Which before, the rain was pelting in sheets,
The studded stone in the pavement glimmered,
With light, the fireplace in my house simmered.
The light from windows fell around,
Making blurry shadows on the wet ground,
And people walked on the slippery slope,
To escape the downpour, their only hope.
The clouds seemed grayer, hollow and weak,
Like life had been drained out from their peak,
They flowed around with chimney smoke,
Like a wealthy king, now sad and broke.
And I turned back, to step inside,
Instead of venturing into the tide,
For the sky was mourning its beloved loss,
Its rage I rather wouldn't cross.
