All but the distant sound of a single cicada
In a lonely heart’s song of yearning,
And the unmetered drum of errant rain drops
Diving from tree tops to the puddles below
In one last fatal ballet.
The chilly rain now just a memory,
The city draped in a veil,
Ethereal, a haunting prison of mist,
Now almost invisible, but tangible still.
The world left in a place of reverent stillness,
As if reality has suspended for a brief moment in time,
And we are all but in a dream.