This Howling Wind
A stirring sound of thunder whistles through the heady days of wreckless sleeping, hearts beating and others speaking their nonsense. The wind is crying through those heady hours, cold showers, killing flowers, for Spring to grow them back in place. These grinding sounds and piling pounds will take more than earth to put right in place, but this heavy wind is calling through the stormy skies and will carry throughout the night. And it rains, it pours, the old man snores, until he cannot wake again from that comatose, and pitter patter, more dreams are shattered, from a never ending rain. Let it breeze and flee through the crowds that seek shelter from a sitting place, let it soak and roast those who most often oppose supposing those who’ll never speak again of happiness. This howling wind has dragged the sun down to its very knees, and asks it please, to never forget the stronger force, to force this flogged horse for a century more of weathered battles. This wind is strong. This wind is strong.