The sky hangs heavy, a swollen shroud,
whispering storms in a voice too loud.
I walk alone where the streetlights fade,
footsteps swallowed by the night's cascade.

Clouds gather close like ghosts in flight,
pressing the weight of an endless night.
The first cold drop, a trembling spark,
a warning whispered in the dark.

I flinch, I shudder, I turn away,
but the rain is patient, it wants to stay.
It knows my name, it hums my fears,
it drips like echoes of vanished years.

Each drop is a whisper of a forgotten sigh,
staining my skin as the world walks by.
No hands reach out, no voices call,
just the hush of rain as shadows fall.

What if it drowns the walls I built?
What if it soaks through bone and guilt?
What if I stand with nowhere to hide,
and the world just watches, open eyed?

I've run before, even begged at the sky,
pleaded for mercy, for clouds to dry.
Yet still, it comes, this quiet flood,
stirring the ghosts within my blood.

The streets grow slick, the night turns deep,
puddles reflect the thoughts I keep.
Alone beneath the weeping air,
I wonder if the storm will care.

Oh, let the sky hold back its grief,
spare me the flood, grant me belief,
that in this vast and storm-torn land,
I will not break, I will withstand.

And if the rain must have its way, then let it fall.
I will neither run away nor fall.
Let it drown my fears, my name, my past,
for I am the storm, and I will last.