Washed Away

The gutter’s alive, a wild rush of despair,

a current of sorrow, a soft, slick affair.

It tumbles like secrets, collected debris,

while flotsam and jetsam just drift endlessly.

Raindrops retreating, the sun seeks to rise,

while fragments of dreams slip under gray skies.

A swirling confusion, a carnival’s play,

each droplet a story that’s slipping away.

I watch as they gather, then head for the drain,

a ribbon of whispers, a rush of the rain.

What do they carry, these moments unbound?

A glimpse of what’s lost, a truth I have found.