Humming

Who is this woman to you?

Rain slams strongly against the windows.

The light flickers, and lightning splits the sky.

But it matters not in the dry, dry house

Built of wood and stone.

A withered, frail, delicate mess of gray hairs;

Tethered dress, black and blue;

Skin warped from old age with a dark, dark hue--

Sits a quiet lady, humming a slow, slow tune.

Her chair creaks as it moves forth,

Back again with a squeak, and then the storm roars.

She listens, but hears not,

Her ears clouded with long-lost thoughts.

Wicked shadows crawl across the floor,

But the snapping of the outside world scares them.

Light floods the scene, and in seconds the darkness hides,

Hiding, hiding, until the lightning dies and only rain is heard.

That, and the dark hum of an old lady, alone,

In a dry house made of wood and stone.

She mutters and coos, while her chair squeaks

And the storm purrs. Nothing, not a thing, could ever disturb.

Not a door pushed open, quietly stepping in the house,

Seeing the tall walls, chandelier reaching out,

And paper walls folding.

Walking effortlessly, gliding like fog through a street,

Entering the dry, dry home, while leaving the door wide open,

And rain, rain, follows the soaking intruder.

Up the winding stairs, with a slight thump-thump of steps,

Stumbling over poking nails, grunting when impaled.

Heading up, while the storm fades into a quiet hum,

And creaking.

Up to the floor, the windows shudder in fear,

Both sides witnessing the worst of their world.

Rain screams, sliding down the glass;

The sky’s lightning strikes, angry at the clouds;

And then the intruder, peering past its glass,

Ignoring its trembles as it shares its view.

Carefully, with a simple zip! The blinds are brought down,

And they continue their way.

Dark, dark, dry, dry, the home waits, as the old lady hums along.

Listening, walking, finding the room:

A frail and withered, mad mess and delicate face;

Skin wrinkled like an unkempt blanket;

A tightly wrapped bundle of bones;

A beautiful, loved dress of black and blue;

A sweet old lady, all alone.

She hums and hums, blind, her thick, long lashes glued tight.

Streaks of glitter slip down her face,

Glistening as lightning strikes, she continues her tune,

Unaware of any events.

Walking closer, closer, breathing over her head,

Whispering to the deaf, “I’m home, my mother.”

From behind, watching her shudder,

Hearing the words uttered by none other--

Her song cuts short. Her tears are no more.

Her blue-black dress is now red.

In her dry, dry home, it is now very, very wet.

The storm continues, it rains inside.

The doors are all open as the windows hide,

And there is the soaking, a treacherous heart,

Looming over a mother whose life was cut short.

Author's Note

Any advice is welcome :)