I can hear the wind's throaty voice outside.
Its chill fingers reach me even within,
Chasing the warmth from the room where I hide
From the consequences of mine own sin.
The heavy drapes of the windows are drawn
Though the room is no darker than my mood,
As I wait with trepidation for dawn
And the sun which will once again delude
Me into thinking that the day will be
Different, better, a virgin canvas,
Filled with promise and a cup of sweet tea,
And not a genuine pain in the ass.
But who knows? Today I may learn to elude
The expense of my moral turpitude.