It rained a multitude of colours.
I could taste every drop on my tongue
like the perfect word for a mediocre poem,
giving sudden flavour and harmony
to the bleak backdrop of adequacy.
The rain sounds like
hushed whispers of gossip being spread like the plague,
a wave unfurling itself through an audience,
or a carpet being unrolled slowly;
and it sounds quite like this:
I cheat when I create.
