6 of 145

by Yasmina Crichlow

Storm

the skies, a dark and morbid purple shade
a rumble deep in the clouds, they make their way
still, with the parade, I am seated, unafraid
my tears, like the rain, are unpredictable and grey
but the wind, a thief, decides to steal them away

A crack, similar to a whip, voltage disrupts my window
Calm as silence, I follow complaisantly, but I can already tell
the delicate glass shattered, truly humbled to this show
a crimson color, oblivious to me, devours it like a cell

the storm intensifies, growls, demanding a chance
to surrender, to allow him this dreadful plight
rain sets in, whilst white clouds quiver and dance
these tears, escape me even as I hold them in, with all my might

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Poetry: Storms

by Yasmina Crichlow

Poetry: Storms

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