Oblivion

I see a shapeless mass
in shades of gray
swirl against a dark background.
As it suddenly stops, I feel my eyes
flutter open to a room
inside a white farm house.
I look past my Victorian couch,
note at every window or corner,
plants crowded together for light.
There’s not enough sun.
The growth, scraggly and brown,
should all be trashed, but I can’t.
Maybe there’s life left.

The roof leaks as it storms
and I see the drips of water. 
I listen to their sounds
as they bash upon
the silver frame of a gas space heater.
They remind me of a kid playing
heads or tails with a quarter
that’s slapped down
across a table midair.
I even think the thunder laughs at me;
it has a wicked ring to it.

I’m crouched now,
ready to pounce, like my cat,
upon a mouse that suddenly appeared.
I’m hungry.
Baccus always left the bodies
when he took his snacks.
I lick my lips
and wonder how it’ll feel
to hear the crunch
as the head
is snapped free.

Janie Wisenhunt's Questions:

1. Is there enough imagery?

2. Does this read like prose?

3. I used internal rhymes, to some degree, does it make a difference in the sound of the poem?

I do appreciate help!