Poems

GREY

On this lonesome eve.

Surrounded by the roaring rage of silence

And then the abrupt lacerating drone

Of healthy filled toads, spitting their chill

Darting venom,

The grey skies gave way to the bulking weight

Of the May rains, drenching me;

The ritual to rid the Amazon demons of yester years

Whose sour victories are the memorabilia of my shredded heart.

Doused and cold, my wool blanket is my only succour.