Tempest Storm At Dawn…

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Dawn was a liquid prelude
echoing in pattering notes on roof tiles,
its water colors washed away
by the deluge of overwhelmed clouds,
and drenched eucalyptuses
swayed like drunken sailors to
resonating music of the flute
of damp, tempest breeze.

With the duvet wrapped around
the lingering warmth of a lost, balmy night,
I sat gazing at the silver showers
riddling the aged, blistered pavements
in ripple-puckered puddles,
while some droplets splatter my face
through half open windows,
like pearls scattered from
the broken necklace of dreams.

Roses nurtured by sunshine
are bathed by monsoons in manna,
breaking with rapture to
kiss the soil in petalled sighs,
on glass panes  aroma of rain
precipitates in misty translucence
like the haze covering
spectacles of memories,

The sword of lightning flashes
while the thunder resounds as trumpet of war,
the earth is an insatiable sponge
absorbing the melodies of vagrant clouds,
the tempest o’erbrims 
the emptiness of solitude in
fragments of ambiguous poetry
waiting interpretation from
moments of quiet contemplation.

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