Tell me is it thunder or are you just crashing down?
There's something tapping at the glass,
but the roaring rain will drown
an answer out when you go ask;
you can't make out a sound
of the person at the door.
I wanted to be brave but I was bound,
forehead to the floor.
Tied with ropes down to this chair,
unable to invite the guest.
You tied me there, you're no fair,
you treat me as a pest.
But hey did we expect a visitor tonight?
This morning when it looked pretty clear,
I assumed it meant that I had been right,
that often wanderers won't come near.
Now it's let itself inside,
the water creeping closer, still.
The clock decides to stike midnight,
the storm will eat their fill.
YOU ARE READING
Thickets
PoetryI need a place for poems and poem-like things now that I've made a habit out of expressing myself through poetry
