The melancholy rain that coats the road
in shining darkness kills me cold and hard.
I shake like autumn’s leaves as they explode
behind the blast of wheels.  The night is scarred
by eyes that only see the glossy sheen
of life reflected in the mirror’s shine.
Co-mingled with the rain, the blood is clean;
the stain of life, the stain of death are mine.
I’m trying not to gasp too loud for breath
as shock proceeds to numb the blinding pain.
I’ve never felt this cold in any death
I’ve died before in melancholy rain.
My pulse, my pulse is all I seem to hear;
I thought the angels’ songs would be more clear.

Audio of Scott Ennis reading Struck.

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