She sighs for a second
of her own thoughts,
then turns her attention
back to the roads, rain slicked
and as scaled and slimy and winding
as the serpent that told her
to begin this journey.
Her song begins...
It hits her hard, and she pulls over,
right hand clamped over her mouth
in an attempt to distill nostalgic nausea.
"It's all futile," he sang to her through the radio,
almost drowned out by the watery bullets
pounding on the soaked pavement.
"I can't see why I even bothered.
Oh yeah, it's all futile."
... climaxes ...
Almost breathless now,
she finds herself running in the rain,
away from the voice that would act as her conscience
and her final jude and her executer.
On and on, tripping over branches and stray brambles,
but still the voices rise in her, laughing and mumbling
their wordy poetry.
//No matter how far you run,
they'll cross any distances after you.
No matter how long you run,
they'll meet up with you eventually.//
... and ends ...
And the amnesia rain proves too much
for such sensitivity --
she drowns in a whirl-puddle of lost memories
and the summer-scent of innocence playful and guilty
of its return through sound.
and the guardians of the road watch her die.
... in only a few minutes ...
A new raindrop is born.