RaIn.
then none.
Off, then on.
Like my mind,
but unlike
anything at all.
Metaphor is nothing.
If you are my teacher,
why must I embrace you?
Let you in, maybe -
but entertain you?
A tree,
something solid,
bark, rough,
like old weathered hands -
I wander,
seeking the security
of the box I was in,
but finding I've
outgrown it.
You'd think that
we'd be friends,
just to spite him
but we played right in
to the ugly hand
he dealt
and we fear,
just like him:
the legacy marching
on,
the rain,
once again