Pouring and panting,
As they dive down to their death,
Each feeling the rush of adrenaline
before hitting the ground

Wounded,
But not quite feeling any pain from it
Devastated,
But not quite acknowledging how broken up they are
Crying,
But not a single tear wells up in their eyes

"Mother,
I want to go back.
Mother,
Where are my old toys?
Mother?
Where are you?"

We are tiny droplets of the rain,
Jumping from the skies,
To live,
But hitting the concrete of reality,
To die

"I want to grow young, again."

So we wish to be,
A forever unborn drop of water

"Mother?"

Insignificant,

"Mother?"

Immature.

"Mother?"

Irresponsible,

"You're gone, mother."

Just perfect.

"Take me with you."