The armour is not shining.

Raindrops, relentless and dripping, sleel-shod and silky,
Slipping and sliding down the window, the window through
Which the light softly creeps and sidles into the waiting room.
The window, and the room, together, they look at the rain, and
Ask it whence it came and why? They ask it if it stays, the sky
Fall tears, weeping from the carousing clouds, wine-sodden on
Summer mead, and bellicose with bee-bumbled memory.
Over again, the conversation ambles back and forth, forth and back
And forth and back again. Why? Who? Where? When?
When will I see you again?

© 2ndwitch