The Storm

The wind is whipping up a gale;
The pelted raindrops sting like hail,
And, as in some dark fairy-tale,
I’m traipsing through the storm.

Behind me, there’s a little room,
As sheltered as an airtight tomb;
And, like the ever-virgin womb,
It’s always safe and warm.

But I’m a one who needs to go
Out where the cheeks of heaven blow –
A thing which only goes to show
I differ from the norm.

It’s no surprise I walk alone;
Not everybody’s made of stone.

Photo by Todd Trapani on Unsplash

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