Dreary is the morning: I am offered nothing
but slashing winds, and endless waves of rain.
Peeling back the curtains confronted with
a grey spillage of sky, Gods lost paint pot
thrown out into the weary blue.
Lost drops of rain slide down the pane
hanging with hope from the ledge,
Before dripping into oblivion.
The floor under bare feet is cold, unwelcoming, endless.
Shivering and shuddering, shaking of
the dusty leftovers of sleep
we seek solace in the boiling kettle,
The stream that clears the sleep from our eyes.
Awakening the senses with bitter gulps of brown.
Warming slightly we return our attentions to the
outside. Soggy clothes sodden, blowing in the wind.
Headless bodies hanging.
Puddles emerge, then merge into garden lagoons.
Flies fly in a frenzy, seeking shelter bouncing from
my windows, as the birds chirp from their snug
little nest. Trees bend and bow- a defeated dance.
Open the door scowl at the world
Moan about the wetness of the lukewarm milk bottle
scrape the rain splattered paper from the porch
floor, thanking christ it's the end of the world.
Not Long Left
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/small-comforts/
