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.