A diving and dashing moment, umbrellas won’t hide you from the wetness. With every drop that hits your darling face, you a piece of you is cleansed. The rain is holy; it forgives your trespasses. All that is left is to forgive yourself.
You stop the madness. Umbrella, useless anyway, is thrown to the ground. It shatters. You let the rain envelop you. It becomes you — you become it.
It’s a metamorphosis, though far from Kafka-esque. You’d never try to match up with Kafka anyway: He’d send shit after you.
As each drop falls, drips onto your forehead, it washes off your make up. Your hair is drenched. So much for fooling with it at all. Your glasses need windshield wipers. Your eyes aren’t open anyway.
One drop. You’re forgiven. Two drop. You’re forgiven. Three drop. You’re forgiven.
Drop drop droppity drop.
Forgiven. Forgiven. Forgi—. Forgiven.
The rain is your sanctuary.
You’re not clean enough, you say. But who really is?
You stop the madness. Umbrella, useless anyway, is thrown to the ground. It shatters. You let the rain envelop you. It becomes you — you become it.
It’s a metamorphosis, though far from Kafka-esque. You’d never try to match up with Kafka anyway: He’d send shit after you.
As each drop falls, drips onto your forehead, it washes off your make up. Your hair is drenched. So much for fooling with it at all. Your glasses need windshield wipers. Your eyes aren’t open anyway.
One drop. You’re forgiven. Two drop. You’re forgiven. Three drop. You’re forgiven.
Drop drop droppity drop.
Forgiven. Forgiven. Forgi—. Forgiven.
The rain is your sanctuary.
You’re not clean enough, you say. But who really is?
