Monsoon Humility

Creating mandalas as they waltz on their toes- blooming like lotuses in a stagnant pond; their cores are pupils welling with tears: weeping beneath the shadows of nimbus. Rings with no beginning neither an end; silent are their echoes as they flow like silk. The only audience aware of the pool- are soles of filth awaiting to be cleansed. From a curtain of raindrops, on roads they now rest- searching for the face: the advent of death. Anticipating the fact that heat is preferred, ripples embrace as they're consumed by the earth.