Pulse of the Tide

Constant, like a fixed beat on a metronome,
It spins downward, slowly ever downward.
Facing earth like the end of a sentence,
It stops at the weight of another thought.
Maybe it’s too much to remember.
Maybe this memory brought anther dead friend.

Sought to find answers in the unclear sky, it spills

Over and over.
I forgot what it was like and maybe we all forgot the sound of a

Smooth pulse.
Repeated reminders regulate around the hounding lingering

thoughts, and this, alone, reminds us we’re human again.
Like the steady tears of a baby pierces our own soul’s flow,

and we ask for it to stop, and we feel disallowed by something we created,

at first such a wonderful sound, left to become a burden, a nuisance within

the walls of your own home. 
Yet, to your own heart, you feel the steady piercing of the tears that roll down the

cheek of your “baby”, and you somehow feel a burden left in yourself to cure that pain.
I can’t help but wonder why we expect joy from one and hate it later for its simple desires,

And hate one from the start and grow to love it later for its created desires,
When we have to be reminded that we gave one life,
And only do we compliment the other, yet the responsibilities lie within ourselves

To “deal” with the piercing cry of a child, yet unconditionally love another?
That is what rain is to the softened soul.
A constant reminder that while life pines itself on two beliefs,

Of pain and excitement,

Of sorrow and joy,

Of the mere sad and happy,

It falls in steady clicking beats, like a metronome. Each new measure a measure against our own dangers, yet a measure that measures our commitment to what keeps us alive.
Rain, is a reminder that all of this is constant. It is the tangible that cannot be used for more than it is worth.
Through the winter, with snow it’s so long forgotten that it’s cold, it falls never steady, merely patient and collecting,

And you watch it freeze over the ground,

And you enjoy it, revel in it, for this holds a soft spot in your heart,

And you make more of it than an irritance, such a long shot to feel,

With something you’re taught to love, yet always stop.

Through the summer, you feel it again, such a wasteful slow,

And you swallow,

Other people’s air, the combination of others’ distraught pain,

Hollow, your heart becomes under the pressured heat.
But you find cover, and you enjoy the slow fall of the sun,

Don’t ever forget it, you mark it down. You live it over and over.

This, steady, flow. Rain pours itself through more than our hair,

Our Veins slowly beat ot he rhythm of the rainfall.
It is in this moment, we understand.
Rain cannot be molded into memories.
We do not see its change.
It saddens us, and enjoys us, through its

Steady, constant, beat.

It stops us from twirling our umbrellas in excitement,
For at the end of the day,

We are still left in wet clothes,

To an open door,

And the immediate summon,

Of loneliness.