Untitled Poem

‘Tis not that the rain is as heavy
As a thousand years of snow.

‘Tis not that the wind is as immortal
As a tenebrous cavern’s echo.

It matters not that the light is as brazen
As a scout’s campfire flickering aglow.

‘Tis not that the fire is as torrid
As the crows wheatfield from Van Gogh.

It is, my dear, that the air is as stagnant
As an empty tarn when I am alone.

It is, my dear, that your presence is as comforting
As the musings of Edgar Allan Poe.

Lauren xx