Everything, here, is just a rain away

And every rain is just a wait afar

Air is wet, jacobins aroused, the day

Decays and hawkers part from the bazaar

I am that windowsill dust, stubborn, proud,

Which shivers shakes when the sky yells thunder,

Which fits in, packs up, conforms to the crowd

But ends up, like others, strewn asunder

The first fat drops of the rain will patter

And the purple smoke in your head will fade,

Things start to matter, ghosts seem to scatter,

See, for a first, the foulness of the blade.

Broken glass will seem wicked, feel the rain,

Water of the wait will allay the pain.

~Ajay
8/12/18