Squall

Satan's choir comes: the rain.
Ten thousand disembodied voices
Of the damned as they are dashed
Against the unforgiving ground.
The thunder sounds, like timpani.
It heralds nothing good at all.
I sit, morose, with water dripping
Off my hat and down my back.
The river's apt to rise again.
My love, wherever she is now,
Is apt to bide her time inside.
She'll call, I guess. She won't
Be coming. I'll endure the afternoon
Alone (again) attuned to Satan's
Choir singing, “Here we die.”
Indeed we do, the lot of us,
So sentenced by the rain.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 105 times
Written on 2019-05-19 at 01:35

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