There is something tragically beautiful about a hurricane.
Power. Unpredictability. Clouds like soft blankets draped across
the ceiling creating a wonderland of unknown excitement. Light
peaking in through the creases. Hearing the world around you
just go on – without you. He was screaming about me existing
in my little fort. Too old to hide from the world, but too sad
to face it. I don’t know. I guess temporary is also really beautiful.
Hurricanes end. Blanket forts fall.
amateurhourpoetry 