Wind blows outside of my window
Pressing smooth yet firm fingers against my home
My mind roams and I imagine the glass smashing
Raining rainbows upon my mattress
How delicate that glass is.
I lie still as the windy hand takes grasp of my roof
Tearing the splintering wood into two
Harming the home that was bathed in my youth
How weak that wood is.
Whipping through every crevice it took
Parts of me, torn pages from books
Picture nothing left, so I take a look
An empty book except for the scars
How mindless those memories are.
Fingers reach and grasp the bed on which I lay my head
Soon deciding to drop the rest and hold onto to me instead
Causing a violent wind that can only press
Who I am explodes in my chest
How easily succumbed this heart is.
But I find I am back in my room
No invisible fingers summoning doom
And the window shakes from these thundering quakes
But I find it does not break
How sturdy that glass is.
The shingles shutter and the wood utters
Cries and groaning stutters
But I find my home still stands as a whole
Full of youthful glow
How strong that wood is.
And who I am is not flying past
Away to become a memory passed
Each piece has a place in this place meant to last
And each scar has a story, lessons amassed
How brilliant these memories are.
Now I lie still, in a bed untouched my body in one piece
A steady beat, is heard beneath
As the wind lulls me to sleep
Dreams of living and being alive form and flow from me
How beautifully resilient this heart is.