I wanted to dream again, to see the light before the rain poured upon me, but it came down in sheets that were not soft.
They were outspoken, and I wondered where my voice had gone.
What I’d become.
Had someone stolen it?
Did I let them?
Where is it hiding, and if I shouted out against the rain, would it stop, pause or would it thunder?
Answering me of my own vengeance that I wished to effect upon the world after my own, natural disaster.
Angela K. Crandall