Water trickled down the glass panels
as the fireplace crackled with bursts of sparks.
Disheveled, yet pensive, he gazed out the window.
His deepset eyes mimicking the moonlight dancing in the reflected rain.
The downpour would wash all else.
Dirt, rubbish, fatigue, and memories.
Fleeting — the word resurfacing yet again.
It was the only definition, of fate hoped for.
The son of the rain never lived this long.
Beautiful, serene, yet empty and transparent.
It longed to seep into the deepest of hearts,
thinly disguised, ever-exposed to all the world’s gaze.
I’m posting only the poem parts here. Full parts/story on another forum.