Erasure

The wind shield wipers sweep back and forth like twin fanatical cleansers,

Wiping clean every drop of the rain that manages to splatter on the glass,

Leaving him wondering if this is the season ripe for picking of the dreamers,

Who see patterns and whorls of reason in every water blot that does pass.

Each drop falling onto the dried up, thirsty sands in the desert of his mind,

Almost instantly sizzling up and evaporating and yet leaving a trace, a print,

A memory of the wetness, the smell of rain, a breeze cool and for once kind,

And yet the thirst is impossible to quench, its momentary relief just a hint.

A hint that brings back memories of a different time and a different space,

Dreams that once flew unhindered and now buried under a blanket of reality,

Slowly stretch in awakening and brush the cobwebs away as they surface,

Only to see that the sky they once flew in is now shielded by a veil of practicality.

Voices of companions long lost call like wraiths dancing on the edge of reason,

Four way streets that they separated at, shining like signposts marking milestones,

The desolation that welled up inside still threatens, a tar coating the sand uneven,

Zebra stripes of optimism and cynicism alternating amid the bleached white bones.

A silent mist rolls in swiftly carried by the wind, obscuring and clouding vision,

Carrying a cold that bites and gnaws, keeping the last trace of moisture intact,

Chasing out all dreams and wraiths, burying all the memories in ruthless eviction,

The white sands are cold again, undisturbed and untouched, almost pristine in fact.

As he realizes that the rain has stopped and so the splotches of wetness on the glass,

The wipers almost smiling in their victory dance as the rain drops gave up the fight,

Little do they know why the rain drops smile in retreat, as the clouds above pass,

For through the sand the rain did reach a seed buried deep, a shoot emerging to light.

Through the clouds a ray of sunshine bursts, a warm nurturing and giving spotlight,

That bathes the little blade of green, the young warrior of hope and dreams eternal,

As it unfurls and smells the cold air, the endless realm of white sand not an easy sight,

And yet it waves its optimism in the wintry air, a flag of the resurgent spirit internal