Of this world

Of this world
of this traitor...
...of this traitor that I am
proud of him, proud to be
of this being like a rain
cold, tender, foreign to ennui
of this night brightening
in the glimmer of a promise
that always, doubt
doubt, always
on the skin, like rain
cold, tender and lying
and from the lip hangs the drop
ephemeral and proud to be so