Monsoon

this is no typhoon, said the weatherman, lost in the analysis of his own expertise; he babbles in color in the last of light before shutdown. you see, the skies have spilled over its anger punishing us relentlessly since midnight; what sin have we done now that even the air is drenched and retinas are rendered dead? and now it is dawn, yet the sun has deserted us, hiding from heaven's wrath; if this does not stop soon tragedy will flood us. outside people swim in paths meant for walking; school is out but the children is in mourning. while i lie in darkness, stranded in this second storey; i babble in the dark, lost in the analysis of my own expertise, writing riding the middle of this tempest.