Wistful

O' rainclouds, do you feel it too-
The aroma of a fresh bout
Of tears?

Wonder if the purple veins
Disclose to you
The darkened viscous bleed
That dribbles subcutaneous,
Molding into beads,
Of a stagnant pain?

And does it seem stark obvious
When the skin crawls,
And the breath closes out
For a midsummer stroll,
Leaving behind a sight
of exophthalmos?

And then a sudden surge of air
Gallops inward
Taking back the orb,
From its clandestine eclipse
Into a flaccid calm-
Do you see it too?

O' rainclouds, do you feel it too-
The aroma of a fresh bout
Of tears?
.
.
.
The bitterness of being placed
Where I always wanted to be,
It creeps into me today.
Confined to the dingy cabin,
Effervescent with the pungent odour
Of disinfectant, expensive-
I nibble my pen to a stump.

As I sit back,
Amidst the monotony of routine
I gaze at the rainclouds,
Reflecting myself in them.

And I wish, I could rain away-
Or rather
I could just glide away.

Wistful,
I rummage through the sheets
Of obscurity,
Hoping for the paycheck,
In time.