Sylvia

A storm brewed in your mind
Swivelling wild branches of thought,
Shook the blue black eyelids
of sleep robbed eyes.
A dwindling drizzle of regret
Trickled like icicles that hung out of the
Misty red phone booth glass pane,
Where you leaned like a broken dove
rests its hurt wing on the ground,
Hobbling in pain.
All calls for help or love long lost
Went unanswered that night;
It was the wind that knocked instead,
Bludgeoned the doors to be let in
And sealed the openings in its wake.