AND IT ALWAYS DOES RAIN

When the winds whine, and the clouds could cry;
The skies burst forth, and I admit, I never will try.
For when the heavens pour, ever often and again;
I do hate it when it does, and it always does rain.

That seeing is believing, to believe is to have seen;
Mine eyes claim an audience, to all that has been.
And yet, sight found lacking, ever often and again;
I barely would see it does, and it always does rain.

To unsuspecting ears mine, silence shall be denied;
Symphony for thunder, lightening interludes beside.
And even while such is audible, ever often and again;
I could refuse to hear it does, and it always does rain.

As the drops would claim, but, the genuinely fated;
When thirst be quenched, and the starved be sated.
A taste that should then linger, ever often and again;
I never would admit it does, and it always does rain.

For twilight dripping, beyond the confines of repair;
That smell of rain, and the drops which should dare.
A stench, that hardly would be, ever often and again;
I pretend it does not ever, and it always does rain.

Moist creeps within, and, the without was drenched;
In gasps of humid pleasure, graces will be wrenched.
To touch that sense of liquid, ever often and again;
I rarely should feel it does, and it always does rain.

That the elements were soaked, and then, so was I;
For the sake of mine truth, will choose to instead lie.
To inspire, and to conspire, ever often and again;
I would hope it never does, and it always does rain.


By :
Sarthak Prakash