It’s raining.
Of course it is.
It had been forecasted for a while now.
It should have been obvious,
The wisps of white that mimed Paul’s Revere,
The temperature reaching a fever pitch,
The air itself seemed to sweat so that the Earth
Must wipe it all away, leaving a gray streak in its stead.
That golden sun you were so focused on grasping with all your worth
Has disappeared behind the streak, as does your self-worth.
And the golden days are over.
All that time protecting the sun from a foe you never saw coming,
The sting of defeat tingles as the electricity mounts,
The rain pelts you like insults, striking you coldly,
And the wind howls like shouts of malice.
If the sky could kill, you’d have drowned.
If words could kill, those drops are icicles.
The sun is gone, child. Look for the silver linings,
The edges of gloom illuminated by the gold that once was.
The sun is still there, right behind the rain.
It’s no golden beam, but you must take them.
Waiting for The Golden Beam is to wait for God;
Only possible in death, and even then,
You’re never really sure either will be there.
Take the silver, wait out the howling storm.
Endure the strikes that are only ice if you let them be.
The gold will triumph over the silver
And you will be basked again.
The ground beneath you will be damp;
Some things may be a wreck;
But you will have withstood a storm;
No longer a child, but a force all your own.