Burnings In The Rain Poem by Mark Heathcote

Oh, are all our tempests are they transient burnings in the rain.
Voices are calling, crying out again, louder again, echoing
Our pain reflected in a teardrop in a broken windowpane.
Oh, and somewhere all our souls, they're looking on fumbling
But you, you can't ascertain whom
Because you've become too immobile, too catacomb,
Too lame; to move on, to leave
Your own derelict home your piñata cold heart.

Listen, there's only the silence of one who cries
There's only the loneliness of His far off lonely good-byes
In the tear ducts of our eyes a cloud form
In the wilderness years spent apart, we've all tried hard to disguise.
It's only my heart aches breaking news
It's only the next world, staking
A claim on my heart, claiming my soul, that I hear this singing at all
Oh, if only the hurt could be sent away swept away.

Oh, if only the life I've lived all my life could be lived again.
Then, all my useless hopes might fill an entire ocean
And your love might heal an ancient rift
Oh, if only the desert drought no longer waged war
Then the minion's in their waves may not have drowned in vain.
When darkness follows you, you might lend their shadows,
And when looking left to right; remember, discover
It was only you what's been haunting—you, yourself each night.