I am the Rainmaker

I look to the sunrise for answers to
Riddles that sit curiously on my lips
Only to be met with a mournful grin
With muffled words
On top of shadowed lavender
Etched in a recurring dream that ends with
A drifting eighth note.
Amongst busy watercolour intersections
I think I hear her whisper in one impatient sigh
Cry, Rainmaker
Dried tired eyes make thirsty pastel rivers
On shy exposed jaded soil
What makes the rain but one melodic lullaby
Playing on a faded forgotten record
Clouding fluorescent mountain tops
Hidden behind an indifferent rhythm tinted grey
As the blind aimless wandering ghost sings
I love you
But what has it ever meant.
The tears flow
And the Rainmaker lives forever