Umbrella

 My roof is gone and I can't go on

Yet I still thank the skies that pour pain upon me

For my umbrella,

but my umbrella is not an umbrella,

not in the sense that I will not get wet or experience the raging storm, 

but it is in the sense that when I am soaked to my broken, brittle bones 

I can open it and hold it over my hung head

I can slowly and hopefully surely 

teach myself how to dry