Blots

|Raindrops|

Tiny realms of delight,

Untainted by the alluring mediocrity of the world;

And yet, a shimmering part, for they alight

Upon the pavement, smooth and lethal-

Silver droplets, round as beetles.

The grey skies, smothering and unmoving

Dance above in bleak pirouettes

But the worlds of surreal simplicity

Racing to the grounds

On windy chariots weaved by the breeze,

Unique, askew and still so uniform,

Don't stop shining.

The clouds cast their grey blankets of doom,

They clear and let the Sun beat hard

Trying to wash the little rebels

Of their little lives.

It makes little use.

The Sun, once a sworn ally of its grey fellows

Now smitten by the beauty

Of the beasts it can never reach-

Betrays its grey companions

And raises the beauty of the drops

To ethereal forms.

The little embodiments of perfection

Laugh, snigger at their foes

As the clouds bear down on them above;

Slice through the warm smell of the soil,

Bounce on welcoming umbrellas,

And finally

Touch the ground.

The bundles of naivety

In their zest to outrun their foes above,

Forget that their greatest enemy

Was lurking beneath their beings,

Rushing up

To meet them,

With every passing wind.

And now,

Nothing remains to remind me

Of my foolish, tiny muses

Save an army of swiftly-dispersing grey

Raw as bread,

And a wet puddle below

That bleeds, bright as day

With every passing tread.