Sometimes the tinted windows wash away
and the glass, un-obscured, shatters–
upon the figures in the pouring rain,
singing, their words no more than patters
on the surface.
Songs, like poems, are tinted as well
and only hold their weight in metaphor.
But still, in the dark, they hurt like hell
when every drop you presumed a downpour
is a bullet.
Now between us the window stands ajar
like the doorway to a young princess’s dream
and though the road I see is long, and far,
I fear the view, as it seems,
is not so clear.
That we’re both screaming through the rain
as a thousand tree branches break the glass.
And though I know I’ll suffer through the pain
in our promise to survive, I ask…
“Can you hear me?”