The rain beats hard against my battered windows.
Its attacks have a dangerously foreboding sound,
Sprays of bullets intent on killing the window panes
And maybe me next if it succeeds in its quest.
Nice and safe inside, like being a kid again,
Covered in security blanket woven in warmth,
Hiding from the angry searching rain,
Cozy, warm and protected against,
The relentless monster monsoon,
That keeps beating on my trembling windows
As if it wants to get in and finish me.
Soaking me thoroughly like a fish in the sea,
Giving me a cold or maybe pneumonia.
Does the rain have a dark soul
That longs to kill me?
At last it has run out of breath
And simmered down,
Reduced to precipitation,
The beating sounds gone.
Its torrential might
Dissolved into drizzle
Before the sun shuts it down.
Bob Boyd
