I tremble when I hear the voice of the wind saying,
“why should I even care
if my actions close the eyes
of those who yield to me?”
and all that I know
is that here I stand with pen in hand
in a world of my own making,
contemplating
a potential stalemate.

The time has come and whispers to me
from the lips of the universe
that the stairs of the fiercest storm
are covered with everything
that I have hidden in my mind,
confusion attempts to run
through my veins creating a madness
with fingers
oh so unkind.

I gaze at the warm sun and wonder how
I lost the desire
I had in my younger days
to bravely sing to the world
from a throat that had not forgotten
how it feels to stand in the gap
or what it takes to expose  winds
that do not care
who their actions destroy.

With pen in hand I speak to the wind
with words the same as if
I called upon
twelve thousand angels
whose wings float upon each gale
as if they were merely
part of a beautiful dream,
once again I feel safe
in this world of my own making,
my trembling ends.