The sky weeps its sad warm scream,
the raindrops slamming blindly
into the street.
Miniature plumes spitting at
the night, marking each death like
a whore seeking
absolution, tears cursing
at her as she awaits the
nervous shuffle
of change in the master’s purse.
The weak smile reward for hope
found on her knees.
Silence the emptiness, and
resolution becomes that
same rain hiding
from the contempt of truth just
as quickly as guilt hides from
the wanton leer
of her recent lover. And
the whore whispers, “Does rain scream
before it dies?”
