A ROCK IN A WEARY LAND.

I am an umbrella, a rain jacket,

For the Cinderella, a stored away packet,

Till the day the skies sputter rain.

I am a tool box, a first aid kit lain

In a dark, webs-infested dusty corner,

Touching no light; seeing no cleaner.

The kitchen accident and toys’ breakdown

Are such welcome picnics to the town.

Could have been a willow, nor am I a pillow

To cry on in times of immense pains in kilo

And to hug out of a heart exploding joy.

But I am a bomb-shelter, a floating life buoy,

A tower of refuge in times of need;

A furrow-deserted land planted no seed,

Awaiting to be useful again in season,

Not Jesus, but bearing a crystal reason

To be also a rock in that weary land.

I am a handkerchief in a man’s hand;

Ironically stuffed useless in the back pocket,

To blow away flu mucus off the nosy socket,

Or wipe the intermittently rare solitary tears

That graces the dry eyes from heartbreak fears.

I am not a flowerbed; I am a mango tree;

Having no admirers save the monkeys, free

To shelter, mate, play and make all merry,

Spring has come with flowers and I draw very

Much attention; the promise of fruits abundance,

Needed, loved, and embraced in a scarce annual chance.

I am an audience for the sad breaking news;

The princess’s Eulogizer in dilemma to possible views,

I am a lawnmower in her abandoned backyard,

A joker of little importance in her game play card.

I am a muzzled ox treading the corn;

A mockery of treasure, glittering scorn,

In her darkest times, the cherished glow-worm;

An apologetic shelter in the times of storm.