The sky is a generous grey, beneath whose pending charity, sentinel palm trees stray. Whilst impetuous Atlantic gusts, act as a guide to the tourist of Saharan dust, from our heritage far away... yet unclaimed.

And so it shall remain, for domiciled within Barbados' Summer paradise; I would ask only for the rain; that it might wash these seared whip wounds of Sun's splendour... away.

The fruit trees are as my family's; their abundant branches intertwine and then once more, rewind to form a clan. Yet, their want of leaves says to all, of the prospect of Summer's well-fed famine... they had made no plans.

So, we would ask only for the rain; that it might wash away the browned chlorophyll of a cruel Summer's plague. Much like nightmares... to be preserved only within the introspective and reflective archives of Yesterday.

Upon bent knees, I humbly appeal to the Holder of Divinity - Nay! I pray, for but a half empty, half full cup of rain.

History is the religion of the Survivors; the blasphemy of the Defeated; the faith of the Victors.

History is the suspicions of the Non-Believers.

Love is the investment, without a guaranteed return. So check the markets, and seek consultation; lest your capital gets burn.

And your love... unrequited and unheard.

What is life? To breathe, to eat, to rest; To hope, to wish, to greet Death? Is it seconds, minutes, hours or days, or perhaps greater times; months and years?

For time is as a breeze of wind, gentle yet moving, unseen yet foreseeing; then men's lives are as leaves, so easily blown away, as life's Author quickly turns a new page.

Will your story be told, rewritten in bold, or forgotten, forever unknown?

After Ten Thousand Years, what will remain; after the seas and sands have reclaimed L.A.?

When the continents don't look the same; shuffled around like dominoes, as God prepares to play another game.

Will the stars our audience stay, though we prioritise these silent spectators above our planetary play?

Then there shall come a day, when no taught tongue these words can say; lest as maxims to complement aristocratic displays. When this poem's rhythm and reason, no researcher can attain.

The Gate Wall has been long erode, rendered flat and smooth; a mat laid out upon the floor. Our precious salads' descendants, both physique and favour now wholly unknown; after Ten Thousand Years Nature's nurture will be shown.

After Ten Thousand Years, humanity will remain, and with their mortal expressions; the savagery of ten eons, nay eternity, shall be tamed.

Parents bark, bite, and blame.

I raise my earphones' volume so high, that I don't hear my pain.

I don't dream, of Mahogany trees at 10:00 pm; beneath whose vast canopies of nighted green, I lay with them.

I don't dream, of sweet songs sang pursuant to savoured seconds stilled; as I acquainted your ears and neck, respectively... collectively to a poet's tongue and fangs. As we forged new fragments of much missed memories, upon our little hill.

I don't dream, of tight embrace, nor of your critus and aggrieved face; they are the choicest fruits of my regretful request: That you return home safe and nothing less.

I don't dream, of them; my every conscious thought and deed are but my surplus offering. O! How I long to give my two copper pieces to them. Perhaps four hours of supplication, might make me more than a friend.