Rusted

The rain patters quietly on this rusted roof of mine Steadily, heavily, Constantly. I search in vain for a light, however small A lighter. A candle. A way to hold on. Pitter patter pit, whoosh goes the wind. Bringing the cold in, curse these walls of rusted tin! For I am cold, feeling small with no light. Quietly, increasingly, my heart starts to pine. The support beams to my broken home begin to whine, And as the wind blows stronger, it begins to hide my cries. The wind wails, and my tin walls fall I can’t even bring myself to crawl Away from the wreckage Away from the pain Blinded by tears, I cannot see the light of day. I am stuck here in this ruin of a house, forgotten and shunned by the happy and brave.