2005-02-21 -- 5:00 p.m. The rain out side my, Four wheeled beast, Just like his pistons whirling, Like air within my lungs, We become one feared version of melded life, Neither want death to carriage us away. The rain, this time, Was not meant for me, But rather for the siren of the ambulance, And the blood about his face. As life becomes worry, Only for living, You can’t help but be afraid. Rarely is the rain meant just for one, Such as the man with the blood about his face. And rarely even rarer is it meant for just blood, Just like around his face. Stranger though… My life, although, Rout to simple, Blazing embers, Burn’s freely, with out, The want to be living, And yet only, Simple synapses of my mind, Do I live so breathing freely. With this living freedom, What is that I find, The blood, No not even, Worth my foot upon the brake, So what is this want less electrical signal in my head? Maybe just some stupid, Timid primitive, Instinctual response, To this stupid breathing, Maybe the rain, So easily wet my friendly beast, Is what this chance really is. The blood about his face, A warm fresh reminder, Of what my will, My mind and other’s, Have so shamelessly bestowed into my mind. To take myself and thrust from others, What the rain so restlessly restores, His life, he who bleeds from his face, The rain gave back to him, with out his four wheeled beast, For he is the only survivor. And now I floor my own beast, Not remembering, nor thinking of what just happened. The rain now upon his windshield, I cannot see my blazing embers, Now that I felt my own face. Now that I am that very person, Who the rain is meant for. I can only think of the other, Lifeless dimwit, The this, All this is meant for.