The Storm II

This year has been a wicked sea—

a tempest gale of pain and loss.

Hanging by a thread—a raft—

about the waves I flail and toss.

Like stinging water against my face,

I’m not sure I’ll feel myself once more.

Longing for that distant place,

I dream of a fruitful and endless shore.

I’ve not any sails for wind to blow.

Even still, no gusts will muster awake.

I envision direction, but no place to go,

and am enveloped with grief—a nauseating wake.

Then, I feel a welling up—

a fire inside to keep me warm.

If the wind refuses to naturally blow,

then I suppose I must become the storm.

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