He won‘t come if there‘s rain.

He would climb the serrated rock;
Whether the stone be cold, or the plummet bleak.
He’d have its flint pounded through his palms;
If only I was waiting for him upon its peak.

He would hunt down a fallen night;
Whether its moon fell in the sea, or razed red.
He’d plot wrongly in contempt against its shadows,
If only for the sake of some gossip that I spread.

His colors are amber-- the only spectrum he can see,
There, I shall drift on the wind
and trust in my heart,
That he comes for me,
I know not whether the stakes be trivial, or dire…

But,
He would swim through the lakes of fire;
Whether the brimstone be brittle, or dense.
He’d whip upon the hounds of hell,
If only to press The Ferry Man to refund my pence.

He would draw upon his relics;
Whether their memories cleave to joy, or shame.
He’d leave himself nude and broken,
If only I would remember for him his name.

His colors are amber-- the only spectrum he can see,
There, he chases the wind
and steps over my heart;
That has been lost to me,
I know not whether I be plagued, or sane…

But,
He won’t come if there’s rain.

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