Her heart was
whirling,
swirling,
twirling
inside the eye
of a
whirlwind,
so I
weaved words
to calm her rage,
because,
like an empathic eagle,
a poet is a
storm chaser,
unafraid of
human hurricanes.
A wordsmith word weaves
against windstorms,
decorating nebulous skies
with rainbow bridges,
kissing the warm balmy
neon glow of the sun,
softly soothing,
vivid vexations
through
intimate intrinsic artistry,
because,
a cloudless day
is a bandage wrapped...
Too tight.
Only a bard can
affectionately alliterate
the grip of grief,
as poetry can be the cure
to calm tempested trauma.
Ink is the mistress
to butterfly sentiments.
I will not stop the moths
from devouring you,
as long as they feed
on toxic thoughts.
I have made a home on the moon,
where stardust scribbles carry us to freedom.
I tell you, I lost it all by that flame
The sudden heat that ate my house, the smoke
That singed my every hope, my cindered name
And how was this tempested thing provoked
What little spark ignited this fury
Against the frail defence of love, it's all
My house was built to be, an armoured wall
That made for virtue some sweet security
And now its gone ... like vanity, like dust
Like all our days upon this wretched piece
Of paradise. the tongue has never ceased
Nothing here tames the furnace of the beast
I am bare, barren of all but my peace
And intent to be absent for that fire
That shall end the world, and cleanse its desire.
Contemptuous clouds were looming largely.
Their overhead disdain exuded warm
phlegmatic spittle on me angrily.
Conspiring gales abet the raging storm.
The thunderous claps reverberated
abusive oaths, some four-lettered words --Bang!
and boom! -- resumed throughout the tempested
display. Below, I protested, harangued:
" I stand amidst your heavenly vengeance
composed and wet. Your threats of torrent might
impresses only the meek. If by chance
you see me tremble --not because of fright.
I shiver only from the cold my friend.
Rain! Blow! And Clap! I'll brave it till the end."
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