Golden Shovel
No storm as unpredictable as she
who leaves annihilation where she walks;
no telling what intemperate mood she’s in –
a maelstrom that conceals a sultry beauty.
No effort to be fashioned as we like,
instead, a growling snarl behind the
veil – furtive, and now hidden in the night,
awaiting truths that we are fearful of.
Yesterday’s for granted skies - so cloudless,
untroubled beauty clothed in flawless climes,
and here, within the eye, all is still, and
prayers and wishes in the quell are starry;
as another tumult taunts the edge of skies.
She pirouettes across this earthly stage and
while shedding tears that wash the sins of all,
reminds us just to cherish all that is (that's)
not measured by what others deem as best.
So, after nature waltzes through "what of"?
Destruction of "what was" will leave us dark,
yet, we are not the first to build again, and
won't forget when next the skies are bright!
The final words taken from Lord Byron
She walks in beauty like the night,
of cloudless climes and starry skies
and all that's best of dark and bright.
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