No one is watching the rain.
I am prone to visions
at times of lightening.
My father is thunder.
My mother is sky
which he stains.
My brothers
are like winds
in opposing directions...
I am caught
between them.
The storm
is our heritage.
Our dark nights
huddled beneath
the roof
or our leaking
sins exposed
by flashes of sudden,
intermittent light...
somehow seem
glorious, natural
and forgiven.
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