Droplets strike the surface like hail
Ripples spread forth, they move and swell.
They distort the image I thought I Knew well
And send my thoughts to a personal hell.
The droplets, they are not rain
Blood red, the are painted with pain
Stemming from wounds felt in the past
Never healed over, not even a scab
The image settles, I see hope again
Happiness glows, a fire from within.
Yet the world demands I stop at once
And another memory surges
I fight dreadful urges
The droplets fall crimson once more
They fall from my eyes again
When will the pain ever end?
RedRavenPoems 
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