There’s something unsettling about the rain.
A grainy, unrestful quality to it.
Even in the peaceful repetitious rhythm,
I cannot sleep.
Perhaps it's because the rain is movement,
A beautiful dance I'm subconsciously
compelled to imitate.
Or perhaps its due to the many things rain symbolize.
Rebirth, a sacred baptism.
Tragedy, miserable weather,
accompanying an even more dreary life.
If its really so for the latter,
who would want to sleep?
No one wants to wake up to tragedy.
The sky crying down,
as it had when you fell asleep.
The most serene of nights is when
the moon is peering through my window
watching over me.
Shedding light to scare away the demons.
When I can jump through my dreams,
and fish with the wise man on the moon.