Storms & Whispers

But I am a fool.
A jealous man who swings from ropey greed,
back and forth,
the ever-tightening noose,
pulled taut by the eyes that
fall on you.

This is not suicide,
but suicidal,
doomed to the caverns of self-pity
that howl and wallow to the stony existence
of nobody in particular

echoing out into the valley,
the valley, where the flush of rain
draws near.

I can but put my hope in the hands of the wind,
have faith in their power of change
that so many times has swept me wrong.

But still,
I’ll take my chances
and pray for hurricane.

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