Monsoon

A poem

by author

I arose wearier than the box-shaped
Weather clouding my window.
If a cloud is a premonition of monsoon season,
There lives a spectre rain-dancing
In the abbey of my eye, ringing
Each bell it passes to invent
A novel discord to wake me up.
If I’m awake, there wilts a bouquet of
Faux flowers my mother abandoned
To my left. There stands an unused
Umbrella hiding in the corner,
Anticipating its humid debut.
Nothing. But the window remains grey.
Clarion call. Dissonant plucks of the harp.
I rise up like an unprovoked rumble.
Faux flowers, umbrella, doleful day outside.
If a dream is a premonition of reality,
This eternal clouding rain-dances for
The monsoon in my mind.