Writing is Freedom - Poetry: Hands Cupped

Poetry

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Hands Cupped

written by: Mike Basile

I stand alone, in the field.

My hands cupped and tightly sealed.
Under the sky, which cries above.
The rain washes over, like a glove.
But I refuse to move from this spot.
Until my hands fill, with tears caught.
Each drop falls, wet and cool.
Adding to the growing pool.
But with each new, another's lost.
A testament to the times that were tossed,
away as if meaning nothing.
Regardless of how desperately I cling,
it's rather futile, cant I see?
To try and hold this raging sea,
that's thrashing about within my hands.
It slips away, quicker than the sands.
And with each drop that drips away,
memories of you begin to grey.
Fading far, into the soil below,
carried away by Nature's sorrow.
Until, like the sky, my hands break.
Releasing the water, I begin to shake.
All that I've gained, was ripped from me.
I close my eyes, and begin to see
only blackness in my brain;
memories, I try to recall in vein.
Nothing is here, everything's blank,
now that the water's all spilled from the tank.
And like the liquid, I watched you decay.
Until I broke, and you were washed away.
From both my life and memory.
No longer, now, do I plea.

But what am I doing here (I can't recall)

staring up, watching the rain fall?

So forever I'll stand here, hands together,

praying for a change in weather.