The cloud lets out its throaty cough
cries the rain all through the night
the ground gets wet like tears on cheek
such a morose, gloomy sight

the darkest leaves upon the tree
let the winds' fingers through it's hair
in the mist where none is seen
fall, it would not dare.

but the storm of life not ended yet
behold, the brilliant flash
come and gone; now left behind
a life, burned and crashed.

02/09/2002

Posted on 02/09/2002
Copyright © 2024 Andrew S Adams