A chance of rhyme

The western winds and eastern sun

batter and boil my once tranquil soul.

Mist rises to form formless clouds

that swirl in my mind 'til they burst forth with rain.

My poetry is the rain that floods the ravine.

My poetry is the rain that shimmers like a veil.

My poetry is the rain that ruins your plans.

My poetry is the rain that lifts the drought.

My poetry is the rain that streaks like tears.

My poetry is the rain that puts you to sleep.