Petrichor

Inside,
locked away from this hellish sun:
    captive and miserable.
Oh, how this inferno heat
    deadens my lifeless mind.

What I would give
for a sprinkling rain—
for the sun to surrender
to a wall of clouds
    with all its melancholy.

What many call miserable,
I say electric!

When they run to cloudless skies,
I dream of damp, stormy nights—
the smell of petrichor
filling my nose,
reminding me
to be young,
inspired again.