The Rain (From my Office Window)

​Words reach out

through the glass pane,

with trembling heart

and shaken resolve

they beg for a dance;

hear ye, raindrops.

 

They feel the haste,

the receding clouds,

the fading music;

and then, a rainbow

jumps off the million-dollar

skyscraper called hell.

The Inmate!

There isn’t much

left to munch now.

She cleaned up the

last morsels

of his boyhood,

onto a fresh tissue,

laced it with her breath,

sprayed it with gasoline,

and burnt it in hell.

He has a job now,

they call him a man,

he drives a car;
I call him an inmate.

Official Prison

Backs bent to submission
by the bulge of prosperity
surrounding a job in a room
with red-carpeted walls and
a white, life-less ceiling
that guillotines the dreams.

The windows won't let the
world in or the word out;
they are sealed tight by design,
to keep spirits at bay, allowed to dance
only in the rays that the
dusty glass panes let through.

And we look out,
to see purple mist rising from
the rains which give life for many,
while filling the moat around us
prisoners here;
it's official, the sentence.

(Ah! The cell called office cubicle)