I look ahead, unfaltering,
Wind whips around my body, fearsome and aggressive.
The trees grip prudent on the ground as they are prised from their residence.
The clouds loom,
Vicious and unrelenting, swirling hues of grey and blue,
They grip my shoulders and steer me north,
Towards an earnest tomorrow.
Shadows, fickle and winsome,
waltz upon the ground gleefully,
Oh how they’ve longed to dance.
Dirt is upturned, jagged,
cut through like silence in solemnity,
Shards of serrated soil,
Left, discarded forever.
The mountains, stoic as they are, stand,
dignified and ceremonious,
They see no pain, no heartache,
Only growth.
The rain cascades down incredulously,
Pristine and fair as an English rose.
Until lighting – volts of reckoning – strike the earth, cleansing it of virtue,
Only to recapitulate and repeat.
I fear not the sullied storm,
Wherever it may be,
As no trifled tempest could compare,
With the storm inside of me.
