The Poet, The Businessman, The Contemptuous.

You tell that the Merlion is cold,

Empty, opens admission from 9 to 5.

That the rain keeps us in our place,

Tapping on our roofs to tell us

Who we are;

That the blue collared

Wakes at 4am on the morning

Shift, to start his

New day of grind;

That how they are stuck in a rut, and how

They cant stop, till the entire void of

Night is theirs.

He tells me of your pomposity,

The reviewer criticizing;

The son who drives a BMW,

Wines and dines at fancy eateries

With his father’s Grace. His Grace.

That you deify your skewed

Idealisms on life, that what he

Values are cheapened by you.

But this I do know that might

Just be true. That the rain dissolves everything,

Just as you said it, and would be here

Again when we are long gone;

That the rain will wilt the paper and

Blot your inked inferno into a rubella,

that the rain will dissolve all of our

ashes in time to come.