For spirits who're possessed and, thus, have suffered,
Thinking they were blue, electric, free
Not sovereign as a circuit in a series,
For they always flow too easily to know
Their slavery, its shame, except to go
Along, with something they'd decided, a lack
From too far back, some impulsive fatal crack.
The rain that would redeem seems far away,
For someone else some pointless sympathy
— Relentless drops assault the roof's tin ear;
At last it has no words that they can hear.
