In a rain-soaked city last winter, "young creatives," braced with paper cups of exotic coffee, swiped
and talked into rectangular plastic talking back. Say what?

The gods are ghosts whose silent eyes dance with sarcastic humor, having plied our souls with the
imminence of death.
So I curse clouds that don't leave a tear behind,
and water pumps
that promise to sing through parched throats.

A venerated shadow slouches across the path,
                                                                        leaving in its wake
                                                                                                     a cradle of dust.