Rain

It's a poem. Look under the surface. That should go without saying.

Curled up on my bed, watching the clouds,
I look up and wonder when You'll come down.

Maybe today, tomorrow'd not too late.
For Your touch, and Your voice, I can hardly wait.

That touch, which cools my skin,
As I stand, arms open, with a wide grin,

And that voice, which speaks to the roof overhead,
As I lie quietly here in bed.

You wash me away, You make me whole
As I lose myself, I gain my soul

That sould which longs for You alone
Must wait, now, for the rain to come