I have been told true writers also write poetry.
I suffered for my art, now it’s your turn.

Rainy night on Halloween
Lonely and safely tucked in
Five old movies and hot tea,
cat, old blanket and no cares.
The countryside is quiet as dead:
something knocks
on this dark night
you won't trick it with a treat.

Or something.
Maybe I should stick to prose, after all.