The Rain of Mourning
It’s raining outside the room,
I watch the day drown within itself.
The same room is in her head.
Rain drops not a cold tears but blood,
Thick, warm, more like a mud.
Her thoughts bloom the flower of demands.
Not a single cry of help. More like a part of the city that unplanned,
they weld people’s dream to its bed.
In the very same place, I heard a story of a woman dive into her own watery grave.
Wet and red.