Moss on the Glass

An old dreary home, a homely abode

I sit in the rocking chair and glare at the clouds

I await the shower that will come cascading down

And rinse all the dust from the glass – at last

The thunder rumbles and rattles my heart

It bounces against these feeble ribs, as fragile as it is

Can it not break under the ivory cage? I almost wish it did

As it keeps throbbing in lament, it keeps on reaching for my grave

And I retreat beyond the door, the warped wood and oak grain

I watch behind the window pane, so solitary in my pain

The lightening dashes across the grey

And I see sparks in stolid dullness

Peaking through the crawling moss

As it conceals my window panes.

I call them hopeful and yet foolish, those wretched vines

I call them weeds and I call them lies

They seep into my tough stronghold

They seep their roots between my fingers’ hold

I want to watch the world go down in flames

And then be doused by rain

But the moss, it covers my window pane

I don’t want to hope, but it eases my pain.

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