Wormhole Sights

the abode of the rains

loses its clouds once again,

pours its moist indifference

over the pluviophile seemingly

taking him back in time,

back to a time

when his mother hadn't grown

all that weight that she did,

when the days had forgotten

how to breathe fresh air in

and instead smeared themselves up in

the disappointment of his misplaced love,

when hopes had a hard time breathing,

and bygones had a hard time dying

and bedside windows had a hard time

concealing late night cigarette secrets:

...

the abode of the rains

loses its clouds once again

and a very pale shade of melancholy

coats the outer crust of his old town

where faces never seem to change,

where kongs and their kwais

restore the burnt ligaments

of his old decapitated memories

and mark the inability of the place

to move forward,

where ancient channa-wallas carry

their green antique shoulder boxes

that have compartments to store

four different ingredients for

a kind of after-school snack

that can be found nowhere else

but here:

...

the abode of the rains

loses its clouds once again

revealing itself incapable of

holding old densities and

holding old intensities,

for the pluviophile

is no longer a victim of the past

but a martyr of the future -

he clads himself in conventions

that bully the idea of conventions

and he wears a look of honor

that borderlines dishonor

in the lap of his old society,

but he could care less -

his has always been a story of

late departures,

late arrivals and

late redemptions:

...