SUMMER SHOWER self-portraits by Walt Cessna

Summer showers, sloppy rain, no discussion, too much pain. I sift thru the ruins, of a thing we once called love, trapped without any reason, our aspirations held above. And I prayed for your redemption, from the hell in which you rot, my regeneration a salvation, from the bloody battles I wrought. So I wash myself clean, never getting any less dirty, no more pure and hardly worthy.