This poem sounds way more melancholy than how I am currently feeling. But I felt like posting it now, so here goes. Not very edited nor my best poetry, but whatevs. ;)
Mosaic
Raindrops on the window
can collide, slide
down the window
together, merged in a graceful duet.
But a single strike
scatters, splits, strands.
In this mosaic,
patterns shift
drifting just out of reach
slipping away as you
set a finger on them.
When the picture is nearly
complete
Careless gusts destroy
progress, and the
process begins again.
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