Wet Season

Days shouldn’t be dark, bewildering senses
into endless, disturbed sleep.

Rain is droning a Bob Dylan number
on the corrugated iron roof, not one of his better songs,

going on and on and on,
stanza overload, eating away at my sanity.

Peripheral vision of my brain, still inundated with sleep
takes in the gloom and hypnotic monotony,

you are so tired, sleep, sleep,
you will keep sleeping.

It’s been raining for days now.

There’s no point rising, it won’t go away,
it’s hopeless, there’s no getting out.

I can feel my heart taking a dive,
weighing up another day of endless barrage.

I have reached saturation point
and my insides have started to decompose,

in concert with the forward marching mould and mildew.
I can’t stomach anything anymore.

It’s been raining for weeks now.

The stinking rottenness of it all has taken over,
invading new territory,

complete obliteration of nerves
that were already shot to pieces.

Fabric is beginning to decay
in the sodden, suffocating humidity.

Rank mud is infiltrating cracks in my foundations,
like a toxic secret which slowly corrupts.

Dread rises with the flood waters,
and is trapped with all the other mind junk.

It’s been raining for months now.