In comes the storm
Are you feeling worn?
Trapped out in the rain
Tiny flecks of pain
Bouncing off the skin
Little more than paper thin
Soon it turns to ice
Stinging with every slice
Drenched to the bone
Out here all alone
Starting to feel ill
No cure by taking a pill
Winds do howl again
Ignoring everything
Whistle as they pass
Don’t care about the mass
Ripping objects free
Ignoring any thought of plea
When it finally goes
All are still in throes
Rumble like a hill
Piled up like unpaid bills
It’s when the search begins
Hope to find still living skins
Simon A Jackson - Writer 