in every drops of rain in the welkin
the chest beats is about to burst of mourning
the previous cinema is playing
and suddenly, it has a thing
a thing of sting
pondering the significance
the strike of former wounds
screams of the doubt
when’s the daylight?
when’s the clear sight?
when’s the elation?
i am used of seeing blues, but can’t that be certainly bright?
shesshy 