By Madison Rowe
I’m sitting on my window, two stories up,
Below my feet is a golden broken cup.
As the wind from the storm is blowing through my brown silky hair,
The window still is my hiding place; no one even knows I’m there.
Above me the clouds are forming a blurry image of my face,
I am really afraid that it may give away my hiding place.
As it starts to rain, drops of water slid down my nose,
When it stopped, the clouds started to form my frozen pose.
Even though I thought that I didn’t have much fame,
I heard the wind start to howl my name.