It's a little
drizzly.
In itself, not that little;
in itself, it is arguably not little.
Profound.
Dreamy, the way it traces itself
across the landscapes beneath windswept history.
Not mechanical.
Robust, and weighty,
the feeling of sovereignty imputed by the dance of the divine and deathly.
I am unsure what I divine
in the cloudy, streaming sea.
The days get warmer.
The future wider,
whiter, a sky so queer:
wetter, like tendering tanjong
turning to hot, hopeful earthen home.
Gather me to the touch.
I am warm, weathered,
whetted, riverined divine.
Maybe the storms will pass
and make way for the monsoons that must necessarily take their place
if I ever were to speak so plainly and honestly
of where I was when the first downpours came.
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