Storm.

I sit and watch the tumble weed

Stampeding patiently across the street

The town used to be full

Children playing hide n seek

Cars inching across the tarmac

Sellers flaunting wares

Couples walking in pairs

Flowers and leaves dancing in the breeze to unheard music

But that was then

And this is now

Then the storm happened

It battered the town and shook the houses

Broke windows and fell trees

And there I was rushing home

Trying to beat the impending doom

Running and falling

Trying to reach home

And the storm raced before me

Battered and shook

Howling and stomping

And shattered our windows

The townspeople fled

All the same night

While I begged them to stay

The little child down the street was last

Wiping tears and dust

The thunder laughed

The lightning took a picture

All said, all done

Beside the house I sit

Watching for the storm

Praying you come back.

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The fine print

Funerals aren’t for the dead

They’re for the living to gather and break bread

To shed tears in solemn silence

While scheming relatives mark available property

Birthdays arent for the babies,

They’re for the friends to compare

Contrast and take notes

While the baby contemplates

The yearly reminder of their approaching death.

Weddings aren’t for the bride and groom

They’re for family and friends

Caught up in the minutiae

Sizing up the backgrounds of the other

While searching for probable mates

And an excuse to drink and ogle the bride

One last time.

Graduations arent for students

They’re for parents

Celebrating their validation at having successfully raised a human being

All the while struggling to make them not die

Showing off their offspring as successful

In a tandem bid to jealous-ify their friends and relatives

Elections arent for the voters

Theyre for politicians

Clawing for power and office

A peekaboo game

Here for campaigns

Gone for 5 years

Till next time.

Truth?

I’m weary of dreams

They cover eyes and blind to reality

Showing only joy and a touch of pain

Never really displaying the hurt 

The deceit

The lies peddled from the cart of life. 

Pulling a thread unravels the cloth

And coincidences I believe in not

Yet my loyalties lay bound in knot

And over my head cover my eyes with this tarp of cloth

To scratch a rusty peny 

Unveil its hidden treasures and ills

May be fortune, 

May be filth

But to seek truth 

The blinders should be torn asunder

Display the roads to yonder

Decide and choose 

The path to take

And the path to cede

For light to fresh eyes

At first is pain 

Then next its accustom

As such to see beyond the picket fence

A board must be pulled.

Thus show to me dear thread I’ve pulled

What lies beneath this cloth you built

A truth I know not yet of and I should

Or an overactive imagination keeping me glued. 

For I trust not what I hear

But I do see through your veneer.