The windows on my painted sill,
Are covered by the winds and the spitting rain.
In my chamber, the sounds of thunder are bottled and shelved.
They roll just above my head, in the corners of my high ceiling,
Can’t reach them.

Stillness of the shadows in my dark room
are frightened by the light that is thrown from the murky sky.
The blackened sky, now light, they curse as they hiss and hide behind my wooden vanity.
And before the rumble of the thunder in my ceiling has begun,
they have crawled from the corners to be painted on the floor.

I wish to be the wind that beats itself against my window,
the waves that crash on distant sand and shores,
the blackened sky bruised
and bruising.

But how I wish I was not the glass and dusty window,
nor the shore that is beaten ‘till it is knowing nothing but movement and stillness.

How I wish I was not the chamber in which I sleep.
The chamber in which I sleep.