Rain on me, oh wash the tears away
Water falling from the clouds,
Waterfall from soaking cotton
Gray and dripping, cool and calming
Trembling goosebumps with bright breezes
Salt stinging as the rain falls from my face
Cold, soft – look at the inkblots
What do you see?  What do they mean?
Think, Rorschach – let the black ink
Seep through the neurons, depolarized thought
Feel the pen slide over the nerves, 
Know the difference between
Blots of ink and ink blotted by water
Whether salted or sweet,
From the eternal sky or the window to the soul
Cold rain and warm tears,
Ink sliding from the silver pen,
Reflecting the grey clouds,
The steely heartbreak
Feel the stomach turn, as the Earth turns
On its axis – do you have one?
What is your axis – where do you turn?
And how?  What angle?
The angle of your pen?
The angle of the letters?
Your life is crooked, bent, slanted
Bend in the wind, bend in the rain
The wind blows, and the rain falls
Spine bends, life ends, slant your way through time
Can’t go straight, can’t stop moving
Walking on a tightrope, a tightrope made,
Woven of tears, ink, clouds and rain
Transitory, ethereal, slippery, smooth
How to weave threads of thought
Into context – into rain and tears
The ink, the liquid thought, bridge the
Gap existing between denotation and connotation
Dendrites woven through clouds
Ink woven through rain
Definition is denotation
Connotation is metaphor
Context is all, isn’t it?
Context is almost all?
Context is not all.
Without life, there is no context
Without life or context, there is no point
A point, a line, two dimensions
Only existing in the ideal
The ideal – not the perfect, but 
Based on ideas and principles
A principled man.
Principles written in ink, woven of the 
Same thread we walk on, for do we not
Walk on our principles?
Balance on our principles
Balance on words and thoughts
Balance on tears and love
Love, woven of different thread
Woven of fluffy clouds, cleansing rain
Sun shining, make a rainbow
See the meeting of pain and pleasure
Sorrow and ecstasy, fruit and stone,
Flesh and bone, life inherent
In this woven thread, sewing us together
Or this woven rope, binding us alone
Cut the rope, free the thoughts
Sew the distilled rope into the cloth
Of your life with the silver, slanted pen
Fingers as needles, threaded with nerves
Slipping the iridescent thought-thread
Through the cloth, the clothing
That you wear, choosing to wear the clothes you’ve stitched together – 
Experiences, cut to patterns of time
Sewn together with thoughts
The cloth is the experience
The pattern is the time
The thread is the thoughts
Got it?  Understand?
You sew your clothes, you make your life,
Wear the clothes, however they fit
Stained with blood, washed in tears
Stained with tears, washed with blood
Red or white, red and white
Cleanliness is bloodiness
Drenched in blood like it is rain
Wash your clothing, rinse them out
Inkblots of blood
Blood is life – blood is ink
If blood is ink, blood is woven into 
The thread, the clothing
Blood – pain, pleasure.
Death, birth, life.
You are yourself the clothes
You are sewing yourself together
Live is blood.
Your clothes are life.
Bloody finger-needles, poking and prodding
Inkblots of blood staining the cloth
You sew to yourself
You sew yourself
And yet sometimes it doesn’t hurt
The scars and stains are washed away
Stand in the rain, let it cleanse 
Feel the dried blood, the old life
Slip away among the clouds
Slide down the thread, drop off the rope
Fall onto the earth, water and blood
Blood and water, dripping from you
Everything a blur, you sew without thinking
It’s almost comic.
But why laugh?  Why cry?
The Earth is far below, or you would step
Off.  Where is the other end of the rope
Attached?  To what are you holding on?
Nothing to hold onto, let the rain come down.