Thunder cracks in dreary stone split skies. Jarred As the looming clouds, I am drenched in blues As I scrap the scribbled lines I learnt by heart For you. Another wasted sonnet fused By tears and cloudburst with pain. The storm Of my soul plays an aimless song again, A cyclone melody trapped by its form.
Fourteen lines rotate like a weather vane Searching for the direction I can’t find, While new rain in this constant streaming city Spirals the memories stuck in my mind. I’m left with the rhymes of strained self-pity
As I slowly trace the trickle of drops And wait inside for the storm to stop.
As the government pushes to cut down migration numbers, the education select committee begins an investigation into the reliance of universities on international student fees
