Through the undulating glass

The darkness is disarmed

By flaming flickers 

Of candlelight

The night cloak

Is snuffed out

 

The storm is raging

The Gods are mad

They send sharp shapes

Through the maudlin sky

 

Their fingers seem to point at me

I see my fear reflected

It’s forcing me to stare

Demanding unrelentingly

That I should take pity 

On this poor

And wretched soul!

 

She’s getting angry now

She can see my head is bowed

I’m buried deep

I am scratching with my pen

Trying to write her out

 

I don’t like this window

This mirror to my soul

Perhaps if I dig in deep enough

I will weather this storm

Out  

 

Despondently

I sink into my chair

Desperation has me clinging

To the old oak tree

Which now proudly stands

In this dusty room

And has become my solace

Under every moody, melancholic moon

 

She knows all my secrets

She is sodden with my tears

I have shared with her my

Every thought

She will not let me down

 

We ready ourselves

Against the storm

Stare it straight into the eye

We raise up 

We are prepared to fight!

 

With swollen lungs

And brittle tongues

We brace ourselves

For the longest night

 

 

The sweet smell of whisky

And stale tobacco smoke

Mingles with the sunrise

And morning song

Of birds

To rouse me from my slumber

For another day amongst the herds

 

Bleary eyed and feeble

I drink in the depressing scene

The leaves have fallen

Crumpled

Rumpled

All around our feet

 

But we have survived another storm

Me and my old

Oak tree

Yet with her infuriating stubbornness 

She gives a knowing glance

 

You know that there is no-one

With such knowledge of your soul

We will meet again

In the wee small hours

We will resume our prayers

This is just a brief reprieve. 
C.K.23