I was walking,

In the rain,

It was freezing,

And my attempts at moving were parried,

By the ice beneath my feet.

And as the sickness set in,

I noticed the road I walked was long.

I felt my jacket begin to fail,

As moisture crept through tears in tbe leather.

And in staggering, laboured breaths,

I called out to God,

and I said,

"Is this all that exists for me?

A struggle in the cold.

Is this what you wish for me,

No one at home even to hold.

When I make it through this,

And I drag myself inside,

I will be all alone, with no kindness from my mind."

And he called back,

"Sometimes, you want things,

And I can hear your soul scream from here.

But,

As the sleet drenches your skin,

And fever burns away your hope,

Your heart may wish to start,

And it will beat slow,

Like an old locomotive,

Chugging along.

But, you must halt it, for all the ruin it could bring on,

I do not give you nothing.

I give you loneliness, and hardship.

I give you painful perspective,

And the words you complain with.

I give you violence, and wrath.

Hell, I'll even give you lust.

But I will be dust, scattered among this damned earth you speak of,

before I ever consider, letting you have love."

And when I got home,

I sat in the dark, shivered, and cursed aloud.

I wrapped blankets around me,

But they couldn't keep the cold out,

Because outside in the street,

Where winter you'd expect,

Sat a sun in the sky,

Amd its heat on the pavement.

For, the chill let the door lock behind it,

When I stepped through its frame,

And I have now since learned, that I am the rain.