A chill runs through the curvature of my spine,
An alarming reminder of the approaching winter.
So here I sit alone sipping my dark red wine,
Letting the drink fall to my center.
I look outside as the rain does fall,
Flooding the gutters of my forlorn home.
So I tighten the enclosure of my tepid shawl,
As I pull nearer my vital heavy tome.
The raining drops of stream have fallen,
Collecting into immense flooding puddles.
So I watch the distressing weather sullen,
And listen to the strident stormy muddles.
Something taps against the paneled glass,
Letting the rush of horror enter.
So I timorously swallow my substantial saliva mass,
Letting the drink fall to my center.
Jazzed About Stuff 