Anthem for a Pluviophile

The Afternoon unfolds the evening,
with a wash of yellow and chrome
a shade of subtle darkness
that would only be welcomed by some.

Walking on the roads
and round a corner.
A mighty breeze sweeps past,
twigs and scraps of leaves
piercing and scratching.

Stand tall against the wind,
a moment is built
where no one feels less strong
than the crack of thunder in a powerful storm.

Heaven is with me.
Hell under my feet.
The Gods are with me
says the whisper of rain and howl of wind.

Then streaks of water fill the sky
of silver splashed across teal blue.
The pitter patter petrichor,
sounds and synthesthesia
of fresh water on crumbly soil
that can only shower bliss on a pluviophile.

Few minutes ago I felt worthless
wondering what was the use of life
when its constant chase was only leading to death.

But now I know.

Moments like these only come once in a while
like rain in a dry drought.
And when they do arrive,
they stop you and Time
just to hear you sigh.