An Imagism for the Morose

Soft round droplets, clear like a prism,
Clouded like your soul,
Deep into the abyss they hurry,
Slowed only by the rush of cool, damp air,
Like wandering businessmen,
They collect on fragrant greens,
Reds and yellows amalgam with the cliff face,
The deep blue creating stark contrast,
And so that rain,
That soul rain,
Falls, never ending, into the pit.