I prayed for rain yesterday.
Rain to rinse the sprawling greens that lay across my home,
To wash the coats of the goats that graze there, so peacefully,
To clean the mildew from that rotting hut where the old man lives.
To cleanse my lips, for they are dirty with half-hearted lies.
I prayed for a warm, soft rain.
For a cold rain would make the grasses shiver and shrivel, and
the goats to mewl uncomfortably as they retreated into the darkness.
The old man would simply turn and hide in his aging hut of cold, cold stones.
And my lips? They would harden with the lies I coat them with.
I want a shower to dance in.
So the grasses could tickle my feet as I twirled into the light, and
the goats would shyly come forward to watch, to listen to my rhythm
The old, old man might peek between the cracks in the stones,
And laughter would crack at the lies on my lips.
Give me a rain, dear Lord,
for the Sun is burning at the grasses, killing them slowly,
the goats are crying for a little water, and
the old man's skin is wrinkling before my eyes while
My lips bloat up, dry, the lies hiding the softness within.