I was an angel, and I have fallen. My broken, severed wings lie bleeding on the ground. I stroke these fading memories of what I used to know. Instead of eternal bliss, I now feel this world, and I lift these hollow gray eyes in a silent prayer for the end. I sit on high in my own little world, drunken with the pain, stoned on depression, and wonder how far it is, from my throne to the world's, how far down people really are. I sit atop a building, watching the cars pass by, watching people huddle under their umbrellas as the rain drops to earth. I wonder what the distance is between myself and them, and if I have what it takes to close that razor-sharp gap.
I feel the rain, the cleansing, merciful rain. It helps to sluice away the problems of the day. The thunders drowns the echoing voices, the memories that play like broken records. The lightning sears away the phantoms and blinds those that scream and yell, silencing them. The rain erases the hurt. Now what, I wonder, can keep it away?