omorose

"Seattle Rain."
By, Omorose.


Maybe the sun drips somewhere from a perfect sky..
but then it falls onto the city where everybody cries.

Because hope don't grow on the branches of these withered trees,
I know that is true, at least it is for me.

The patron saint of sorrow sings her song of a hollow life,
sitting on the corner as the day soon turns to night.

And when the last golden petal falls from the dying rose,
I wonder what the sunrise really even knows.

He sits at the station, needing money for a train,
to take him to a new life far from the hope that never came.

The light is unable to penetrate this thick curtain of smog,
for we lay buried far below, beneath our urban fog.

A young lady on the sidewalk who uses pennies and coins to live,
a life searching passing people for the miracle they can never give.

The hands of a small child in a world of sin,
play the tune of happiness through an empty violin.

Blood trickles black from the desperate that gave up alone,
sleeping in silence wanting only to fly home.

The hopeful search the world higher..
for the angels looking down upon us,
chained in the very utopia we desire.


Tell me what you think?
It's my favorite poem I have written.