Oh closed cemetery gates, where, within, so many lay, my joy of living is realized. Yet, I’m stranded, as these slanted drops beat upon my back; now sleek and black, like a robin’s, this misty middle-night. With irritated eyes and soiled clothes, unfocused, and unclear, I see streetlights that drizzle the rain, feel trees letting it up, catching and arresting the downpour. Onto to the road of reflected, sprawling images; a shining infinitely blurred downward. Glaring cars drive a mist behind them— below, a thunderous pass. An uproar. One more time. Glimpsing further down again, I behold flickering lights of a hometown unreachable. The drops that I taste are salted— my notes: stained, smeared, and fallen. This trip is sordid, and my water-mixed eyes wearily call for me to resign and return. But, I don’t submit to these elements, just as they refuse me. We spar, and I am unkilled. In raising them my defiance, they beat with greater fury, contesting how many blows I’ll sustain, how many I can endure. These punctures and cuts are inflictions I want everyone to feel; the beauty of survival displayed on licked backs and bludgeoned, bare chests, so thrashed by the hard storm. Through it, allowed to clearness, I discern the only companions I need: The storm, which cleanses and clears, the music, which takes me along, and inspires our journey, and one to share all of it with.