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Rated: E · Poetry · Tribute · #1785411
A poem about my city
**NOTE: This is a piece written to be preformed, so there isn't an exact flow or form to it.


Raindrops on Seattle

Raindrops fall silently on my city,
Hit hard pavement equivocally,
Forming a metronome for the music spilling,
In whispers out of cracked open windows,
Run into gutters, over fallen leaves,
Fallen from golden and beautiful trees,
Spattered on corners like fiery memories,
Hitting the buildings like chaos,
As they rise through the clouds,
Muffled from sight and muffled from sound,
The water slides down their sides and down to the ground,
Soaking into ancient earth where they resound,
So different from the sound of silence,
Raindrops fall secretly on my city,
Like the tears of a thousand mothers,
They wash away the blood from street corners,
Where once young sons stood,
Spitting empty prayer on hot night under street lights,
Watched by the melodies dreamers play on guitar strings,
During late afternoon jam sessions,
Wood warped by secrets falling from the sky,
Soaking into skin, shivering while children lay dying,
Blood washing from wounds,
Scarring pavement and tearing holes,
Lives marked only by a sky that cries,
On weddings and funerals alike,
Raindrops fall softly on my city,
Caressing the skin of babies just born in my city,
And people that have lived 95 years in my city,
And everyone just visiting my city,
And for moment they stop and stare at the rain,
Feel the rain,
Because in my city,
The rain says welcome home,
That why it rains so much,
And as those tender drops fall,
And welcome people to my city,
The people turn their backs because they don’t really see my city,
Because it collects spit street night prayers,
And lonely notes lingering in alley ways,
And music spilling from apartments on sideways streets,
Echoing hauntingly in secret retreats,
And turns them into something beautiful,
My city becomes something musical,
Raindrops still fall on my city,
Safeguarding dusty highways,
Dirty streets filled with an ethereal beauty,
Wind rising electric over seven hills,
And the entire empty the raindrops fill,
They caress the people asleep on the sidewalk whispering love,
Slip into arguments, and lull the angry to sleep,
Reassure the midnight musician into lovely dreams,
Then slide away to the ocean and are set free.
© Copyright 2011 Eva Romani (thememilycee at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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