Waiting For The Rain

A thin layer of dust whirls around her;

Forming patterns of lace and light;

As she kneels in payer, waiting for the rain to come and quench her yearning.

Her skin, once supple, is silken thin,

Stretched like a membrane covering a memory, tenderly,

Translucent, barely holding in the pounding of her heart.

Beneath the depth of her eyes brews a thunderstorm.

A mad, black, tumult, that has eaten away the road to her soul,

And refuses to reflect any redemption.

But she will catch this tiger by its tail

As she has always done.

The hue will turn from black to purple to yellow and green.

Then fade.

Once the storm comes. Once the thunderclouds break.

Once the tears and sweat and fear are camouflaged by the rain. 

-Gwen Malone