My House Is Gone

The rain is harsh,
The rain is cruel
The rain destroys
My House is gone

I sit and weep
I sit and cry
I sit in bits
My House is gone

The things I had
The things I loved
The things I felt
My House is gone

What can I do
What can I say
What can I be
My House is gone

It is not fair
It is not right
It is not just
My House is gone

My heart is bust
My heart is cold
My heart is void
My House is gone

GRAHAM C LINDSAY


I wrote this poem in dedication to people who lose everything due to the unloving nature of the torrents of rain that power down on people's lives with its unkind unfair and unforgiving destructive force. Rain can be an unloved hateful retched unrelenting murderer of possessions, the warm nest that we build up around us taken like a callous thief that cares nothing for the years of caring, years of love and dedication, years of life that has given many pleasures and memories that in one horrible hour of destruction through the watery boiling cascade of upturned river banks so feeble to hold back the phantom monstrous flood engulfs the nest of many wonder filled years.