Within the four walls
Below a roof
Busy with play of words
The poet is aloof.

The sky is breaking low
Pitter patter rain
Capture they must the flow
Of drizzles soothing pain.

Outside on a stretch of green
Drenched to the bone
A man with cracking skin
Hoeing from morn.

The toiler is tasked to ****
Paid by the hour
Must earn the precious quid
Whatever the shower.

The poet is lost in the toil
To grow his rhyme in shower
The **** works fast the soil
Growing hope by the hour.

Trying to understand this suffering sky,
I wonder why you paint it dark
breaking stares by ravishing storms
and blues at times, cause so do I.
Your true spark there it belongs
wonderful abyss that can’t ever be denied...

Empathy, chemical reaction to my thoughts,
rebel emotions on skin we wrote like
through your fingers drops of soul,
pure water, infinite source of light
love, you and so I did grow fond of.

Rain falls only on this face of mine
reflecting all smiles I make wildly
catching your words like souls in flight,
hearing sounds of precious stones and intensity,
sunbeams transfix my eyes
widening the esteem of immensity...

The sunset with it’s rumble,
whispers of a starry sky,  
warm wind,a striking rainbow,
fluffy clouds to admire,
it’s time…

Go…

This feeling...
Heavy...
Like a wreath bearing down my neck.
Every fibre in me seem to be at loggerheads.

My heart...
Pounding.
Each beat is a hammer
sledging away at my saneness.

My breaths...
Premature and short.
Inconsistent.
I respire full but with punctured lungs.