NIRVANA AND THE REASON IT RAINS


a pickled angel, jaundiced from all the late nights and those long hours beneath the florescent luminescence, belly crawling through the sick and the stench left on the street pavement. falling leaves seem to laugh at his position as they gently careen to the surface below. he pushes onward, through the refuse and the filth and the stains from humanity, all for that desire that drives him. all so he can pick those flowers from the yard of a stranger. that stranger who keeps immaculate the yard in the middle of the worst section of the town, where children are quick to throw both judgment and wild fists at those who dare enter their borough, where the adult population live savagely due to the nature of the day in their decrepit homes of smashed windows and half painted exteriors. wild white roses grow there, along with the largest sunflowers ever seen by natural vision, birds of paradise peek through the forsythia bush that keeps the small herb garden fresh to its owner. its lovely this time of year, right before the first frost of fall lays a small film over the small patch of perfection that no one sees except for its owner and one of Gods destitute warrior children.

and on his way he passes a group of children who sit on a run down porch. those devil children take turns hurling insults bottles and rocks his drunken way. if only they knew him before, before life and the years of broken hearted misery doused the fire within him, they would never have attempted such antics, not against such a being as he. never. as tempted as he is to stand tall and show these future failures the impact of their foul ways, he is too weak and can only drag forward. inch by painful inch does he pass the porch squatters and their weapons, inch by slow inch he grows ever closer to the prize he seeks.

corners are turned and his blood trails behind him now, as those bottles and rocks have taken a certain toll on this- the loneliest punk heaven ever created. his health, never his strong suit, fails rapidly and he prays for the first time since his banishment from His court that the amount of strength within him is enough to bring him to his destination which lies just yards before him now. prayers- those begging wishes made on a star that never responds go answered, as he arrives in that side yard of a meticulous and beautiful stranger.

beaten, battered, and breathless he finally arrived. and He notices, He always notices, from His perch high above He surveys His creations with a keen eye and a sad grin at the site of one of His children in such a sorry state. He listens and He watches as his child lies in that yard surrounded by natures beauty and begins to cry. sobbing tears of regret flow from his grey eyes into the soil beneath him until the tears and breath no longer leave his body. and there is nothing that He can do but watch this hollow shell of a once proud warrior pass before him. and its the earths turn now, its turn to swallow this former sentry of God into its cold and dark belly like it has done since before creation. tumbling into Gaia's bosom is that fallen warrior, tumbling into the womb in which he was created, falling and laughing, just like those leaves did to him out of spite.

and He watches, and thinks about how badly He wishes that his fallen warrior child could come back to His loving arms. but its too late. it was too late the moment that His son decided to take his first step as a human man. it was too late from the first moment His son realized that the world no longer wanted his help. it was too late from then on, and the years of effort without results wore on him, and broke his once proud spirit. so He watches now, as rain begins to form in the clouds that pass over his final resting place. and He watches as the clouds open, and a steady rain nourishes the ground that only minutes ago took His favorite son and delivered him to the mother that bore him.