Twenty-five.

On nights like tonight,
with thunder rumbling
and the rain leaking
through my ceiling,
I feel like I could
throw away this
unhappiness, shed it
like a skin, that
each rain drop sliding
down the wall is a
fresh start and
the cracking in the sky
is God telling me to go,
to pack up and
head for higher ground
but when the rain stops,
when the puddles all
start to dry up, and
the storm's passed
over head, my fear settles
over me like a cloak and
I convince myself that
tomorrow my unhappiness
will miraculously end, that
I will be happy being a
nine to fiver, a slave to
a desk, a drone, in an
office with no windows.

It never does and
I'm left with a
yearning for the rain.