In a forlorn bus shelter

Standing in a forlorn bus shelter
kissed incessantly….
by the rain
that flies in the wings of the wind

Warm inside
as I stand Alone
in a motley crowd
of passerbys

the wind screams
as a thousand drums
the rain beat.
Flashes light up the sky
as the clouds roar

a primeval ritual or perhaps an instinct at play

I tug my raincoat closer
And wipe my brows

I seek your warm hand
and soft cheeks….

your sweet voice haunts me
as does the ghost of the sweeter half a night
Meander in my mind..….

(c)Atanu Prasad Sarma