Worse

Worse

When the sky turns a sullen grey, And the rain drums a relentless beat on the pavement, Each step feels heavier, the queue longer, The world seems to tilt, a shade more dismal.

Thoughts spiral like leaves in an autumn gale, What once was bright now dulls to a muted hue, Hope, that fickle friend, retreats behind clouds, Leaving a hollow where confidence used to reside.

Yet within this creeping shade, a quiet truth stirs: To recognise the worse is to glimpse the better, For contrast sharpens the edges of joy, And in the depth of night, stars gleam more fiercely.

So let the worse come, let it wash over, Knowing that after every storm, the air smells sweeter, And the sun, when it returns, paints the horizon With colours richer than any that came before.