I feel the monsoon sweating down my back,
see the darting tongues of vibrant purple blossoms
and the wrapping vines of sun-kissed waxy blooms.
I race the crocodiles down the stream,
run with the wild beasts who stampede over
burial grounds where their ancestors patiently wait.
I see the figurines move along their twisted paths
eyeing the telling jewel as their prize,
but the hunter guards it with savage delight.
A roll of the die is all it will take to freeze
the years of waiting to the far reaches of mind,
but will it read a five or an eight?