Finally washed out of my hair,
the rains have agreed
to soothe the cracked hands
rough against my own skin.
Each drop falls flat and dull,
monosyllabic words
against a soundproof wall,
ba-thump, ba-thump, ba-thump.
Then they drain away,
into swirling gray pools
deeper and darker than
anyone might dare swim--
To preserve the pure,
stagnant, transient peace--
for I have lived through
enough cycles to know:
Even ancient waters
Resurface.
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