A Patron's Vanity

A Patron's Vanity [A protest poem]--- By Cherbo Geeplay How sunny the day becomes remains to be seen under these monsoon rains as a scarf hangs on the clouds, prodding to be noticed in her blue buttons and velvet robes. What if the heavens open as the day turns mutely orange? Shall we miss the tracks running to the rivers Or must we raise a new wall to brace ourselves from the floods? Must we swamp the crumbs that are thrown to the garbage rack, like swine groveling at the feet of the dying river on the cusp of a patron’s vanity? How long anew before we see the sun rise, and how indifferent will she shine? Hotter than yesterday, or milder in her temper and raging wrath? How oddly will the clouds react under the haze? A strange buzz of bees swirling around these trees will account for the mood as the wind shovels, whistling by, emitting a loud curving yawn, carving quietly in the mist of the storms. Must we therefore walk, standing on the piles of the dumps, watching the clouds with the day growing oddly strange on the heels of our thirsts. We wonder if the smiles of our children will be nourished, or fall apart one by one to the night; the cries are heard aloud on the ripening fields, whose fruits are unreachable. This angst--- shall this be too much for the river gods to bear, on a day in the land when a shallow shadow shall be swallowed by the floods; when lovers in close proximity shall waste their last breaths on each other, whispering sweet nothings in their dreams as the dark is barricaded within the park under the evening's hot rage. Our lungs are thirsty for our truths but we are left alone in futile fury, in a world upon which the fleece of the bat lives and dims the stars.