While she sleeps in the large white room

she dreams about a large monsoon;

and when she wakes its raining, raining

inside that big room of hers.

The white paint is no longer there;

black lies in its place.

And when she looks up to the gray clouds,

rain drops fall on her face.

The white floor has disappeared,

now it’s hard and rough and

cold and slippery when wet:

just like stone might be.

The rain, at first soft

begins to drop harder.

The sound it makes when it hits the

floor grows even louder.

Louder and louder and louder it grows;

harder and harder and harder it falls.

Falls so hard it hurts her flesh,

grows so loud her eardrums pound,

pound like drums to every beat:

BOM BOM BOM BOM.

“Stop!” she cries, “Stop!” she yells,

“Please just make it stop!” she screams.

The room turns white,

the men come in

holding syringes like weapons.

Calmly, like a lion before the attack

they ask what is wrong.

But she cannot hear them

because the sound of rain is still in her ears

not loud, not faint

but still there

never to leave her again.