There once was a man, who longed for the rain. He was sour and salted, wronged and in pain. The sun would shine day in, day out, the light burned his skin and the people were loud.

 

He spent his nights in his dark cold room, writing, enlightening and spelling out doom. He knew history well, to know it to be repeated. With heaven and hell, this purgatory defeated. Time was unkind and now he was left with little love, for his muse had abandoned him and what he had was not enough. He shouted, "Oh rain, why won't you fall upon my skin!".

 

He started to slip, into horror and sin. But he knew how it would end, before he could begin. He walked with his umbrella in the sun, but had no such fun. For his heart grew cold and as his mind grew bold, he headed for the gun. But there are no bullets that could penetrate this thick skull, thus sour and salted, he took a handful. Swallowed them deep, but they ejected back out, he screamed on the inside, oh so loud.

 

Then one day he decided, he had tried enough, he faced his demons, his lack of love. So he walked outside, with nowhere to hide, as the rain blended with the tears that filled him. On a note he wrote to write, with such agony and spite, as the pain blended with the gears that spilled him. Finally the drops did what he wanted, although belated. and thus as he cried, alone in the dark... He finally disintegrated.