Old

Wind and rain,
Not a vision but a sound,
The former howling,
Finding a gap in the patially rotted window frame,
The rain tapping relentless on the window,
Outside is dark,
Shown in part by the broken pole,
Curtains misaligned,
No longer hiding the night,
Wood for the fire long gone,
Dying embers a subdued orange against the eternal darkness,
There is no longer heat,
Wrapped in a hole filled aged blanket,
My body uncontrollably shivers,
Too cold to sleep,
Yet I ponder if I’ll see the morrow arrive.
If I actually want to.

Copyright: authorchrisbrown