Where do we go
when the rain falls hard and fast?
I think it’s flying.
I don’t think it’s crying.
Where do you go
on days, so dry and cold,
the sunlight glued to your pain,
the thought of distant rain?
What do we see
when the lights go out on the coast?
I think it’s oceans.
I don’t think it’s potions.
What do you see
when you don’t look at me?
Is it darkness or is it red,
the worlds inside your head?
How do we feel
when reality burns in a flash?
I think it’s mental.
I don’t think it’s gentle.
How do you feel
as the movement fades back to real,
when productions come to an end,
when rain drops start to bend?
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