It Rains In Thick Sheets

My eyes rain in thick sheets, seasonal and unseasonal, both,

Swelling like two big blobs on an ugly face, a pole star fallen in the north,

Clueless, directionless, why and what purpose it hath in this life-broth.

A face that resembles more of the abandoned father,

And much less, the helpless, destitute and battered mother,

A face that haunts all three of us at night, it matters and yet does not matter.

When he was with us, he beat us both in all the ways he could,

I reminded him of all that he wasn't and all that he should,

Days, we slept licking our wounds in the rain and cold, dreaming of food.

And one day he left us to die, grabbing all the money notes,

That my mother hid from him in cans of rice and flour, and earthen pots,

It was then I prayed that he must never return, to die of gunshots.

Just like that night, it is raining outside, God's ire.

A life cursed for unknown sins, left to die a bit more in this shire,

Condemned, God is like my father who hates my face and left me to burn daily in the fire.

Inside the thatched house, we cry, mother and daughter at our fate,

I pray destiny to pity me erasing and rewriting my slate,

As I hold on to the thin frayed thread of hope for a miracle before it is not too late.

There is a big hole that needs a patch up in the thatched roof,

The money instead went for a patch-up work for my mother's ailing body, a proof

of our beggarly life that feeds on our endurance and resilience like a hungry wolf.

And so it rains in thick sheets inside the small hut,

I collect the water in an old, rickety plastic bucket,

But there are several small holes in the roof that can't be shut.

I see my swollen face that resembles him, a constant torture,

If he is alive, he is probably spending last of his dime on a whore,

Who too has a stomach to feed and sells herself wasted on life-shore.

It rains, in thick sheets,

Inside and outside,

Within and beyond,

Wet; wet not just the floor and roof,

Wet in the mind, wet in the soul.