The ice sculpture..

I'm bleeding out my regrets today, no confessions to make
Nobody needs to absolve me, I've got my rain.
And no need to move, to cloud in my thoughts uninvited,
Its a watercolour out there, red seeping into green, while blue is all excited...

The skies have been rent by the shrill cries of rain,
The air perfumed by its joys and sorrows,
The potter's earth sighs again...
I'm left with an ice sculpture...
It has been chipped off its regrets, of emotion,
Of motion, of desires and failures, of expectation...

Its vision blurred by rain, its voice gurgling through the puddles in the lanes...
Its heartbeat thumps of music and rain, it has got coffee in its veins...
A house made of wet paper and ink walls...
The words smudged, smiling to the water's calls...
The sculpture is washed and rewashed...
Its soul and identity is purified...

New eyes, new sounds, time frozen like itself, the sculpture sings...
its wet song and again the rain sings along her fiery song...
The world wonders half asleep, whether its dreaming.
It hears her song, it knows the words,
It has hummed the tunes a few dreams before, a few rains before,
A few lives before... is it the same?

The sculpture is not dead from the wet, from the cold or the stillness...
It is soothed by a healing numb...
In a bubble of rainy beats, a silent witness to rainy changes...