It is cloudy today; as the curtains are drawn on the stage in a way;
The Audience will be kept at bay, kept away from the play.
Tired and soiled, a few marred, a few spoiled, the actors seek to cleanse;
They look at the drawn curtains, queered, almost shedding the pretense.
The playwrights, the critics, the directors cut loose from the mundane;
Losing themselves in thought, hoping and praying for the rain.
A drizzle, a shower, a blizzard will flush the stage today;
The acting stops, the scripts turn real; it is life, no more a play.
It is cloudy, poets scamper in this change of weather;
Trying to hold the pour, until they find their quill feather.
Words and phrases, metaphors and puns dance about in their heads;
Overcome with joy, is it true? Is it a dream? They roll in their beds.
With their scrolls, the papyrus and pens, they sit and they unwind;
For the downpour may dissolve the papyrus, but leave a poem behind.
The poets seemingly ordain the gentle, cleansing, hallowing rain;
With the vile masked by the cascade, the world is poetic again.
It was cloudy today. There are no references to people. *The disclaimer*. Enjoy.