To shelter on a rainy day,
The walk is ever to,
By roving dragons that to slay,
My strengths are ever few,
But in a meager strength the walk,
The walk is ever to!
To shelter on a rainy day,
My portion there with you.

A spattered hope for rainbows in the sunny blue,
This cusp-ing strange desire of rain and lesser rain,
As such to dream upon the open skies anew,
To reminisce the sight through gentle kodak grain.

Thinner than daggers, this rain,
Unhalting, -flinching, -moving,
Greets ground but only on its whim,
There goes: off tilt into a siding fall.

I never thought the sky,
Could flatten out so bland,
And weeping fickle half-tears,
Enter the graces of a grumpy duke.
It is a long strange soul who loves,
The pourous sky as dabbles in the grey,
The tempering of rains that savour time,
The way the nascent mist pools over cobbled lanes.

As all good rainy mornings,
The sun is long slept in,
All lights make faeries in the shadows,
All patters timbre of the soul.

When dulling is the march through patchwork rain,
All things collapse into slow going thought,
There people make fine varied oranaments,
To minds becoming loud, too loud and droning on.

The air is effervescent in,
This gorgeous windswept rain,
So gentle in a fall it comes,
A mist by winding lanes,
And so is moved the soul.

I should see in rain the call to home,
In you such things come heavy and so light,
Oh stage of all my thought and vacancy,
I am wistful and at times so sate.

Who should open up the skies of late,
And fill the stores with all such tears of care,
I am unworthy of time yet so,
Who could triumph over such a love.

I'm dripping in this rainy life again,
In patters little through the pensive fog,
I welcome in the whimsy of the time,
My thoughts so simmer differently in pours:
The world is freshly made in autumn rain.

A scatter to the thin puddles,
Fine threads which turn to running rounds,
All speckled paths by nascent streams,
So born now that the world is glass.

I forgot how much rain feels like my tears,
A little pools in melancholy on,
My lip and dreads to line my beard though stays.
It is a hazy tear on dreamy eves,
Caught in a flash of headlights Perlan tear,
All movement and so coming mist in brief,
Like iron wool and shards of glass at once.

I come home to you, my sweet spires,
Dusted with the autumn rains,
Yours are rosy cheeks in painted figures,
Life in so many walks through mottled streets.

My face in foamers' disarray,
Breaks on the sand so sparsely speckled,
Dancing polygons ever in collapse,
Like mirrors of a muddy thought,
Like all the breaking waves of unchecked hearts,
Why must it be so straight when I am else,
Why others shall I feel so cloudless clear,
Except on rainy days when I am poorly wet.

Beneath the misty front,
All swirls to seize the dying day,
The sound of waves comes dry upon the ears,
It tumbles over self,
And clumsy through the lovely rain,
And layers to its fall like threading rice,
The pitter to the patter making friends,
These little sounds all peak above their ranks,
To find a symphony and glorious song.

To be devoured in the sound of rain,
All cracks and squeaks fall deafly by,
A peace in ruling ruined noise,
The harrowed king of such a world shot through,
With pieces of the sky turned crystal tears.

Shattered clouds fall,
In a downpour of fragrant gemstones,
Resounding like a flowing tide,
Blaring a horn at their descent,
And in a moment whispering.

Loud and quiet like a wandering melody,
Vibrant and cautious like the patting of tiny feet,
They cover the earth in depths and shallows,
Pouring out from the heavens.

All the world rejoices,
For it rains on the righteous and the wicked,
And His grace calls out like rushing waters,
To turn from their darkness and dance in the rain with Him.