RAIN!

RAIN!

I have no umbrella, rain! What will you wash in vain? A violet has no stain. This fairy tale is stuck in my brain. I can never wash it away. A violet waits for a ray. This fairy tale is some clay. It makes me sculpt a ravine’s chest. An invented tale is driving my life’s train. A violet on a green rug is a guest. It will leave its rug one day. Rain! You can’t wash a violet’s purple paint.

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POETRY IN PROSE

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