Tuesday, 4 February 2014

It doesn't pour

Sometime it doesn't pour after it rains,
Sometimes there is a flood, formed after drops have dripped into a space
Stagnant and putrid, a place filled with pain beyond relief
Relief which is needed for ease to return

The ease of a child, maybe, 4 or 7
As yet, unperturbed by life's funny cruelties
Sometimes, it is not so bleak,
So wariness inducing.
It feels weightless, there and not there.
Like the shadow i might only depart in death
I might flee in the next moment

There's an ache in my bones, a tiredness sleep won't fix
Not a nap, nor a night's slumber
For each moment i awake in this plane, another drop increases the flood
What do i do? Where shall i go? Who will hear my cry?

Some have listened to my laughter
They miss the cue where my anguish follows
Distracted now by my next pun line, I feel a clown some days
It doesn't always pour when it rains

But, by shango, when the flood increases, I pause
It feels raw, akin a boiling pus, so ripe, so old, so old, so yellow, so new
This pain. Will you burst in to?

To free me.

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