Written by: Robert Uy

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;
in a play of words,
could you say i am 
left helpless in a sequel?
i babble in the dark,
lost in the analysis of my own expertise,
the middle of this tempest.