Sometimes they just lie in bed, staring up at the ceiling, wondering when the thunder wreaking havoc everywhere will stop, and the lightning will stabilize.
They just kinda lie their on their backs, still as a reflection, but turbulent inside where storms wage wars on each other, asserting for dominance. There, rushing rapids wash over them, sweeping up everything in the current.
They hope (if they can) that one day it will stop, and that one day they can maybe get out of bed when they awaken, instead of lying there still. Always still.
But until that day arrives, they'll lie in bed, unwillingly partaking in the water battles that occur, fighting as a conscripted soldier at the front every single day.
YOU ARE READING
In Principio
Poetryhello and welcome to a piece of my brain. enjoy your stay. Y E A R O N E.
