My Storm has a Name.

The storm the plagues my nights has a name

Through my shut windows and slammed doors, her thunder resinates loud in my ears, and I have no rest.

She is like the bell to a church, a shaker of walls, a rattler of glasses, a frightening sound of beckoning.

I want to emerge out under those black clouds, consumed quick and fast by the rain,

But you'd be a fool to chase such a storm.

So I lay as a frightened dog might lay, scared and shaking under layers of sheets.

And I wait in awful suspense for some gust of wind to blow her into blue sky.

And I will emerge in the sun, blinking and bright.

But such a gust is foreign to the skies.

My storm has a name,

And sometimes when the night is quiet,

I call it softly.