When the winds blow and howl through
  The air like an exasperated ghost,
Her hair becomes drenched in oxygen and light,
  Slowly levitating above her shoulders.

Each gold and silver laden tip flies just as
  She flies.

A storm approaches from the seaward way,
  Bringing a fierce sadness that eats away
At the rocky coastline and the houses
  On weak stilts.

But she dare not move.

To what extent is her fear innate?

She embraces the thunderous turmoil,
  The salty brine and sand flooding her eyes;
She cannot tell if it is tears.
  Or the ocean's waters.

The roar of the storm is the white noise
  That helps her sleep in despair.

She is fearless despite that dejection has consumed
  All that remains.

Although sorrow has taken the city and painted
  Its bridges and buildings in hues of grey and black...

Somehow, she is the only one with
  Colour.