Painting of a lone rocking chair in a field with a lake in the background

I sink into the worn armchair as the last light of sunset fades beyond tangled branches through dusty windows cracked so slightly years ago yet never repaired. Far off, faint echoes of youth's easy laughter taunts as dark clouds amass within mirroring the tempests gathering strength outside. How long will this creaky home hold before thunderhead gusts unleash full fury upon the weary walls holding back sky unleashed? I strike an awkward match with quivering hands as dim lanterns cast monstrous shadows capering wildly in my straining sight. The pipe gingerly lit, wisps of sweet smoke soothe chaos momentarily yet I know the coming rains will flood eventually and no substance postpones the inevitable reckoning ahead forever. Why do we even have thoughts? Unchecked negative rumination is disease of the age they say - will these endless mental missives leave any refuge untouched by their parasitic creeping claim? Focus should center serenity they preach from pulpits built by workers hands calloused like my anxieties worn rugged . Yet turmoils churn still resisting placid taming... Rocking steadily, rocking steadily the old chair creaks much like my bones ever wearier pretending stoic poise against life’s bitter blows . Perhaps if inhale deeper the next inhale in rhythm will sync aligning to some sane meter . Perhaps...perhaps...if only fatalistic musings relent their twisted schemes so sunshine has half a chance before mind’s sudden storms perennially rout clarity’s encampments still clinging. Peace seems destined delusion here. Oh but to quiet the riot and birth some order from chaos! Where is that promised tranquility found? The pipe runs dry far too rapidly now. Outside the clouds rupture open at last...and so too within follows the rain unleashing unrelenting waves.