Another Election Year.

 

This wait of the long hours, 

Stretching to sightless days; 

Hiding behind the curtain, all cynical and grey. 

Alliances and legacies, some of blood,

little bit of petrichor emanating from clay. 

The rain when it starts, will only stop with a flood. 

Those sodden, muddy tracks and jagged little rocks, 

Embedded in the soles of the thin-sandalled feet; 

The sweat now drips through the torn fabric of the clock. 

The shirt is mended with needle and thread, 

Too late for those sandals, of pebbled adornments, 

The tired skin of thirty-eight; must rest on its bed. 

The thatched roof, over the dung baked walls, 

Electric magic yet to reach these deprived corners ; 

The seasonal cyclone to tear, at the barrier of the shawl. 

Another election year as it draws ever near; 

Whispers of ghostly promises heard a thousand times before. 

The voters’ hand casts the ballot, not of love but of fear. 

And the tears, they now stop at the silent, chapped lips. 

To be swallowed in a single motion, not a drip to waste. 

Waiting for a twist in a plot line that never flips. 

The sandals sink further into indifferent soil. 

No answers to be had, only tremble and toil.