rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,

Not Describing What is There

All night the soft rain falls, and the full moon, itself unseen, casts its light atop the thick fields of clouds, so that its diffuse glow joins the rain in washing the forest. Dark groves wall each pale house from its neighbor and pierce the gray sheen of sky with pointed crowns. Branches drip gathered rain and fill the night with a sound like that of crinkling paper. I turn pages of old books in my mind, scan the words in search of some meaning. My thoughts run like ink on a wet page. My hands are stained with lost messages, and the rain will not wash them clean. Uncontained, each moment vanishes as itself, like a raindrop soaking into soil. I fail to wrap the night in words, and its shape is scattered by approaching dawn.
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