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.
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