Climb the highest mountain, punch the face of god

And now the forecast...

The rain falls without slant,
Pelting the top of my head
And gliding down my face.
The hot July heat has melted away,
Leaving in its wake,
A bitter cold rain that
Soaks into your bones,
Mixes with your marrow,
Trying to get you sick.
The clouds drip down in shades
Of gray, staining the fingertips
Of those who reach for the
Sky in hopes of touching their dreams.
Sickness falls into my belly,
In mere fathoms.
I'm lost deep in another world.
The rain falls on me, heavily,
Like stones falling from god,
Keeping me stranded in
The fetal position, asking god
To provide me with a way out.

July 18, 2007

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And now the forecast...

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