Strong Winds In This Faraway Land
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The ooze ought to bestow fear on its forms.
The torrid heat of July gags your sacred calling.
It holds inside you, humbly inviting storms.
Singing in the gentle light of root caregiving.
Their activity heedfulness is vanishing.
Hanging pixie wings are sharp, yet blurring.
Daffodils, once joyful, are now luckless.
This late gap is bred by the deity endless.
Each one should heed this hidden tone of truth.
Earthly grief openly evokes settled insight.
Eschew sinking sand in blurring tracts, youth.
This area's lands grasp a waning and fading sight.
When we omit our inner tone, we get a breeze.
We've joined a so barren and chaotic apostasy.
Deep murk, sluggish heart, stifled worries ease.
A moving, rolling wind minds us on our life story.
Bear not the soul to untie ruin across each plain.
As the world deems you, you expect likely to rain.
The culminating bashes are quick and hastily thrown.
Each day gains betterment and outgrown.
Written: April 25, 2022
Copyright © Sotto Poet | Year Posted 2022
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