The lush of heat and the lack of warmth That one finds; Perhaps it's in the air Which has fostered such despise; Perhaps it's that reprise, That so well fairs And festers in the lost and volatile minds. We await and for long; The rains of a hopeful new, The rains of the grand old, The autumn of a blissful present; To not do away with such words of dissent, To be in contrast bold, To be one of the mindful few, Who, about this long, scorching summer, better knew. The summer never ends; The demigods’ lakes of reliance are drying, Yet their moisture of divine assurance, As sweat over the young’s anatomy persists; The seditious clouds against the trials are trying, Yet the populace, and its admiring coherence For the warming order, continues to resist The rains of this age, which have yet not been spent. The heatwaves rake the fields of harvest, And take more away; The past reserves plummet, There seems no lie to fall back upon, As they begin to forecast more. Perhaps it's time we looked to the core Of what they dismiss as mere escapist con, Of what is on their agenda’s opposite, May as well make the clouds sway; They withhold the rains, for it feeds upon their interests.
