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Rated: E · Poetry · Personal · #2221950
A house stands alone, slowly broken in by a violent storm.
… It’s raining.

The wind screeches, violently beating at my windows.
It screams. It screams and screams as the night goes on.
Relentless and restless, writhing as it bellows.
The clouds invisible by the darkened sky stifle the screams
Of the rain’s rabid rage.

A sudden thunder shakes me to my core. My walls tremble
As the wind throws the rain around, whipping through the air like bullets.
They scratch and break the shackles of my roof. They tear the paint
I so carefully picked out - the decor I chose.
This selfish storm took it all.
It’s relentless, as it ravages my house until it’s raw.

My house is exposed
to the wicked winds,
to the roaring rains,
to the troubled thunders.

My house is stripped
Of perfect paint,
Of deliberate decor,
Of secure shackles.

The storm ends with the waking of the sun.
The clouds comfort the rain, the sun soothes the wind.
The thunder subsides as the rain quiets.
In the wake of a storm that raged beneath the moon
Lies this house of mine, beaten to silence.
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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/2221950-Midnight-Storm