Decieving Comforts Poem by Alyssa Marquardt

The rain slaps against the windsheild,
Like his hand against my face.
The wipers push the water violently down,
Like his words did to my heart and mind.
The movement of the wipers create the only sound.
Besides the groaning of my tires
against the wet paved ground.
The sounds of anger, sorrow and fears.
The sounds of love so deep and drounding tears.
Tears that I cry as I watch the open road.
The darkness of the swollen sky,
hovers over me and my load.
The brightness of the moon, misleads me to a comfort.
A decieving comfort that does not excist.
Concentration of the sounds and roads,
Protects my mind from what lies behind.
Unworthy protection for what lingers on my mind.
The swaying of the shadows, of the branches that twine.
Bring a certain chill all up my spine.
And through my soul and body, it sickly lies.
It will never leave.