Rain Drops and Why I think too much

Raindrops hit leaves and all hell breaks loose.

So many random bubbles full of uselessness break, flooding my mind.

Surface tension destroyed, compounds forming, whole communities of minute microscopia obliterated.

Knowledge takes up space, and that space is gone, gone for greener pastures where Pi interacts with 6.022 times ten-to-the-twenty-third moles.

Some think, others know, more do, plenty don't do, but what?

All this, could be put to better use.

Like an empty pickle jar,

Is is put to greater use full or empty? One could argue that the sole purpose of having a full pickle jar is to then empty it. WHICH PROVES WHAT?

Only that I think too much.

So now that rain has passed, with all it's minor foibles and dystopia. Done wreaking havoc upon the little world of the leaves. And I wish that I could just go with that little raindrop, back into the sea, with all the other raindrops.

But I am doomed

Because that would just have me thinking about the water cycle again

Work-Zone

Mornings start like any others

Orange beams create ovals of light on dark pavement, temporary holding zones for the memories of summer. 

Basking in glow of turn signals and construction cones, buses come and go. Some for itinerant workers and prominent businessmen, others for people like me. 

Boarding bus, black leather jumps, inviting cushions for respite before the daily grind starts again.

Echos of blue and white reverberate through my head. Fond memories of days long lost, memories reaching and stretching, folding into postcards, journeying into positive piles. Happy stacks vastly outnumbered by skyscrapers of gloom.

What happy days seemed so long ago, even though they are mere hours gone.

I wander through the day, Wednesday. Eyes darting without suspense, searching for good times. Smiles lift the day, but the sun hasn't revealed itself yet. Searching for spirits of days lost, I loose hope in long period french. 

Silence blasts through the room, immersed with âcçéñts of past tests and future students.

Such mind molding clay for modeling, some already settled.

Grabbing onto memories from bright times, I struggle for breaths, as I write,

Sepia spills over summer's spoils

Amber encases the beach, like a fly trapped in well, Amber.

How I wish for wonderful woe-free wanderings once again.

Dawning

Clouds cover the sunless dawning . Like a morning without hope, after long nights of suffering. Nails penetrate deep into coffins, forever asserting themselves into the cold, hard wood. Like hope killed by reality, the news reels flash brightly. Bringing messages not of compassion or understanding, but 

sad tales of misery and woe. 

Harken back to a time when leaves could crunch under foot without all the emotional baggage and significance. Good days, when every little thing did not bring upon all the punishments of the torture of the mind. 

Confused and wandering, where do you go from here?

Tales of betrayal of brother on brother. Rejoice in words of worlds my son, for without heeding the knowledge and the inner path of destiny, one must surely fail

Midnight Popcorn

Drip-Drop

Beads of rain fall from fluorescent crowd. Shadows intermingle, illuminated by flashes from other dimensions. 

Solids stand among the crowds, waiting for a turn to disappear.

Rocks lay alone on a sandy beach, stalwarts against the tide. One attempts to roll into the melodic beat of the ocean. 

It is stopped. Pinned down by internal design.

A man walks along the street. Influenced by cultural rhythms, springs in his step. Hits the wall, a formidable mass of racist concrete. Returning home, late. Melancholy seeps in from the walls. 

The darkness drops again but now I know

That twenty centuries of stony silence were vexed to nightmare by rocking cradle.

Images of past lives enter and disappear, flashing by like pulsating beams of light.

The kernels dance around again, whipping in the vortex of air and heat. All moving as one, until.

One lone being pops into light. Followers follow.

The blasts of light illuminate the darkness.

The man watches, pondering the metaphorical rhythms of the midnight popcorn popping.