Monsoon Season
Torrents of melancholy brine cascade from leaden skies;
Mirroring the salty streams of tears that seep from my sapphire eyes;
Folded limbs of bruised porcelain reach out to feel the patter of the rain;
Each stinging drop a tiny shard of ancient liquid pain;
Muddied pools form on a thirsty earth that drinks and drinks and drinks;
My own parched heart does nothing but watches, waits, and sinks, sinks, sinks…
With the monsoon comes a stultifying death of putrefaction to leaf and bough;
Matching the decay that stirs the topsoil of my soul like the blade of a rusty plough;
Snails drag their curlicue shells through promising forests of lush mossy growth;
Just as slow my sighing breaths sift through my lips uttering silent bitter oaths;
The monsoon season is a blessing to the earth and a curse to a trapped soul;
Bound by adolescent selfishness I think only of myself not of the whole;
Forgetting the urgent thirst of the ground for water I curse the curtaining rain;
Staring mutinously into the gloomy grey day with my face pressed against a cold window
pane;
Rain, rain, I murmur through reproachful lips, go away;
And please I entreat you -- return again some other day…
Copyright © Amy Van De Casteele | Year Posted 2009
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