That random, night time tap-dance on the window pane,
brings soothing womb like motion of the storm.

Which rocks and knocks a sleeper to near insanity,
or regress us back to times of richer borne.

Brings us home like shepherds of humanity,
but can lead us to a life of hope or scorn.

We must forget our hopes and dreams and selfish vanity,
to leave a heart less twisted but equal torn.

The high pitch whistles which rattle your bed are from absent spirits torn from the dead,  On this night, the right night and the right conditions, give way to a door for past apparitions.

They wait in good order not like us, they have no reason to fret or fus, they are well wishers, bad wishers and ghosts from your past, which have patiently waited for this moment at last.

For remember, evil deeds are done on stormy nights just like these,
when corruptive natures dance among the shadows of unwilling trees.