The Rain

[Tom]

I remember the sight of crimson washing into the sewer drain,
no, I never knew her pain and couldn't afford to create newer stains.
She slit her wrists behind the church where her father preached,
a daughter he'd caress beyond the average monster's needs.
I came around the corner as she weeped and slowly fell asleep,
felt compelled to scream, instead I just held her comfortably.
She couldn't speak, as if God was telling her it'd be a waste of time,
and her skin became a shade of white paper couldn't imitate if tried.
Colder than ice yet smoother than wine, rich enough to pay the fine,
my brain unwinds, before she died, I wonder if she could taste demise?
Amazed by it all, but mostly, I simply gaze through the London rain,
the sudden change of pace like it can sense the beloved fade.
It brushes her face, as if to wash away the very idea of decay,
I'm stunned by it's display, or maybe I'm in shock, who's to say?
My jeans are soaked, plus I'm late, but I still hold her in place,
to cope is strange considering I didn't even know her name.
I remember the sight of sirens as they drifted around the corner,
surrounded by disorder, all I could focus on was the sound of composure.
The Rain.