Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Sep 2019
first makes me
imagine a poem
that talks about
an ink-stained sky
and brooding clouds
and chilling air,
all of which
can be taken as
ominous signs of
impending doom;  
but that can be bad
so instead lie still
and listen to the
comforting melody
the rainstorm plays on
my old tin roof
Written by
Henry Bladon
     Fawn, --- and Molly
Please log in to view and add comments on poems