Drops Vacillate

Drops from the drizzle
Hit me like unsure thoughts.
A glimpse into the future.
The coming storm,
And the drenching rain,
Of the path soon to be blind
And the smile,
These lips shall have to feign.
Of the laughter drowned by the thunder,
The unwelcome guest,
Once a stranger named Pain.
As the liquid becomes a second skin,
Do I a new footprint make?
Or the last one take away?
With shoulders wide,
Do battle?
Or cower,
At the image these drops portray?