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A storm
Debora Vladimirova
There is a particular kind of abuse
in the way, the branches are hitting my window.
Just like me, they are scared of the storm
and we’re all trying to escape God’s wrath.
I am dreaming of me being thirty and prosperous
but I rather see myself under the roots of
my dull and ugly fear I’ve been recollecting,
vigorously for the last twenty-four years.
Alas! The storm stopped, I guess the sky’s asleep now
The trees are finally relieved, but my future not.
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