Sky drips and monsoon echoes alone
like the sound of conchshells far from home.
The music’s paused
living an absence of years

in buildings taunting the orphaned streets,
in paper boats dreaming to cross the seas,
in mountains, in parks, in restaurants,
in notebooks, internet cafés, bus stops

the roads crosshatch the remains
of some unplanned, un-kept city.
There's no escape in the sky
that melts to gather itself in a cobweb.

A fresh mind is abandoned
to enter itself, each day
in the showbiz.
A village where scientists walk the ramp to please
their collaborators; scholars

dressed as bouncers
processed as timber and firewood
to preserve a funeral parlor.