Drenched Truth

No soft patter. Not a gentle sigh.

Just a flat, heavy drumming against the pane.

The kind that slaps the street, a cold cry.

Walking home, it hit, a sudden, sheeting pain.

My hair stuck to my face, heavy and wet.

Shirt clung, cold and thin, to my skin.

The street lamps bled, a blurry, neon threat.

The smell of wet concrete, where the exhaust begins

to rise, thick and warm. Not cleansing, not a cleanse.

Just water, falling. A raw, unfeeling weight.

Soaked through. No poetry. Just this offense

of cold, and the taste of something I hate.

The world dissolving into a grey, wet blur.

And my body, just a shivering, lost blur.