Downpour

She is a tornado of cherry blossoms, deep red mixed with pale rosy, mixing gentleness into the chaotic floods.

When clouds clear she is the sunlight reflecting the rainbows of stained glass, the ghosts they bear in silence.

She is beautiful like clouds at sunset, wonderful like tulips floating in water, unique like the seashells along the shore.

Soap bubbles, a kaleidoscope of her soul, have you seen the way she calms the waves, gives the ocean its well-deserved rest?

She wears beauty like others their hearts, is the embodiment of earth’s strange twists, yet who will remember her when she fades?

Her audience keeps their eyes pinned on her magic, but all the fascinated faces darken when her inner storms seep through her skin.

They curse her heavy monsoon rains, even though she returns life and colour to the death of the mountains.

She can wreak havoc like an earthquake, causing even the sturdiest skyscrapers to crumble in their foundation.

Those destructive times have earned her the nickname of “The Downpour.” Her tears run and run like a waterfall.

What none of those scholars asked is why she’d cause so much death, why she’d let loose a swarm of crows.

She never wanted to be an evil force, but how else could she show these humans what they’ve done to her and each other?

All those murders committed en masse, the rapes in back alleys, the robbery of pour souls—

She knows they have to wake up from their fever dream, knows they have to change their definition of justice, so she continues to pour buckets of water on them.