Albeit flawed,

ninety-nine

Alas, the rain stopped—the sky rippled

with a grand spectrum of hues most of

which unknown to man: the rain took everything

in its way and evanesced with a magnus opus kind

of leftover and sadly, none dare revel at the

scenery—only myself; and as it disappeared

I began praying until five thousand years

passed and the world was never quenched

again of its thirst for a rain, and everyone

seemed appeased of the nearly-perpetual

drought it caused—and so to plead for your coming

became asking for the rain to pour upwards, and I

settled with patiently waiting: and if it did rain again—

if it turns to a hurricane or just a dreary drizzle down

the alleyway, or if the floodgates of heaven broke open

once more: let the world drown with no ark to salvage

anyone without an umbrella and once it conceives that

sky mosaic, I shall finally leave this shame of a land

and look somewhere else where September does not end