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