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A Patron's Vanity
A Patron's Vanity [A protest poem]---
By Cherbo Geeplay
How sunny the day becomes
remains to be seen under these
monsoon rains as a scarf hangs
on the clouds, prodding to be
noticed in her blue buttons
and velvet robes. What if
the heavens open as the
day turns mutely orange?
Shall we miss the tracks
running to the rivers
Or must we raise a new
wall to brace ourselves
from the floods?
Must we swamp the crumbs
that are thrown to the garbage
rack, like swine groveling at
the feet of the dying river
on the cusp
of a patron’s vanity?
How long anew before we
see the sun rise, and how
indifferent will she shine?
Hotter than yesterday,
or milder in her temper
and raging wrath?
How oddly will the clouds
react under the haze? A
strange buzz of bees
swirling around these trees
will account for the mood as
the wind shovels, whistling
by, emitting a loud curving
yawn, carving quietly in the
mist of the storms.
Must we therefore walk,
standing on the piles of
the dumps, watching the
clouds with the day growing
oddly strange on the heels of
our thirsts. We wonder if the
smiles of our children will be
nourished, or fall apart one
by one to the night; the
cries are heard aloud on
the ripening fields, whose
fruits are unreachable.
This angst--- shall this be too
much for the river gods to
bear, on a day in the land
when a shallow shadow
shall be swallowed by
the floods; when lovers
in close proximity shall
waste their last breaths
on each other, whispering
sweet nothings in their
dreams as the dark
is barricaded within the park
under the evening's hot rage.
Our lungs are thirsty for our
truths but we are left alone
in futile fury, in a world upon
which the fleece of the bat
lives and dims the stars.
Copyright ©
Cherbo Geeplay
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