Lukewarm

A single tear,

Slipping from the cloudy cheek

Of the storm--

We are simply moisture,

Indistinguishable in the wind

And late evening gloom.

Life is spent waiting

For seasons to change

And freeze us into something desirable,

Something consummately beautiful.

When we eventually drain

Through the grate of the gutter,

Clogged with dirt and rusty cans,

We feel slighted, insulted--

The fall was wasted in anticipation,

And now, polluted and stagnant,

There is no cause left for hope.

I will grow disease

And putrefy,

And not one thing

Will change.

Author's Note

Dreams rarely come to fruition of their own volition.

Reviews

[Judy Ponceby]

Wow. It's been awhile since I have read your work. You are exceptionally talented, Ben :) Beautiful use of rain as a metaphor for stagnation. Your word choices are superb. I especially like

Through the grate of the gutter,
Clogged with dirt and rusty cans,
We feel slighted, insulted--
The fall was wasted in anticipation,
And now, polluted and stagnant,

Beautifully done, Ben. Can feel the despair. And your author's note says it all :)

[Skoo.]

I almost forgot how fantastic a writer you are.
Sorry I haven't been on to review in a while, I'm glad to see you still write just as brilliantly as you did the last time I read your stuff.
So yeah, this poem = beautiful + immense = I love it. (:

[FJ Davis]

Unique, intriguing perceptions regarding the lack of fulfillment of a single raindrop--and appropriate metaphors springing from such a consideration.
This poem reads and feels as if it knows its own purpose.
I like it, Ben--a lot.