Dashing through
The water drops
Running fast before they land
Ruthlessly upon my clothes, hair, and face
Trying to make it out alive
Without a bit of scars
Or the wounds of where it lands
Like fighting jets and bombers
These little drops are missiles in disguised
If and when they start to fall
I panic enough to almost die
Enough to know that – coverage is essential – a bunker
home – leaving is second to everything
My clothes, skin, hair does not tolerate these missiles coming from the sky.
[Ruptes, 02/2020]
