Ripples

The rain drops on the window
slowly trickle down like tears.
There isn't an image I haven't seen
on this route,but things appear strange today.
I am passing by these roads in a rush
as if to escape responsibility.
Disjoint thoughts ring in my mind
A synesthetic anaesthesia suffuses it.
I have images in an ill-formed mirror
I can still see the outer world
but with a superimposing aberration.
There are only questions about life there.
Outside, in that struggle for attention.
I notice not the big bill boards and neon signs
but small keepers of flowers and fruits, waiting
for buyers from unexpected directions.
The wind is blowing hard now
The rain has ripples in its stream
There are two worlds.
Inside and outside the shelter.
I head towards my other journey.
There is a splattering knock on the window
Asking all sorts of questions
wrapped, in the warm texture of the moment.