Pounding

The bulbous, damp shapes

Pounding upon my windows and doors

Yet my entertainment persists

The soft blues and purple hues

My only marker of sundown

Until I awake once more

Pounding

They are pounding of my doors and windows

Disfigured faces calling,

Begging for an in to my abode

Howl as they might

I do not stray from my covers and book

A thin sheen of sweat greets my forehead

As I cry out rejections of countless requests for entry

Until my throat

Gasps

I jolt with such force

My book falls

From the clams I call hands

My window outside is bare

The slowly drying pavement

Shows dully below

My only reminder

Of the once calm and inviting night