Falling from the merciful clouds,
Like a fog over life that’s so dense,
it’s almost tangible,
And it is, because then it starts to rain,
Water pours from some empathetic faucet in the sky,
It washes away pain inside,
Slowly tugging at the edges of the wounds left behind,
The rain washes away all the bitterness about,
What anyone has done,
It’s always forcing me,
To change.

The way it changes me completely,
It melts away all the bad, returning most of the good,
The faucet spills a torrent of deliciously warm water,
over my head,
And it sows together the wounds left,
unattended, cleanses deep cuts,
neglected, with infection beginning,
to fester,
It does so as though,
With a power beyond
What should be its own,

The water is an agent,
The protagonist in my story,
It moves me forward and past,
what went wrong,
It befriends me, then later it,
goes away only to leave me with,
a scar,
I wish I had a dollar for each of those,
left behind,
Because despite the water,
the scars remain,
From all those who come
and go.