Beneath these wondering eyes
there is a storm that rages,
and in the eye of
the storm there is a small island;
there, a small cabin sits with its light on.
The candle flickers like a whip as it
illuminates an old bookshelf filled with
tattered dusty textbooks and novels,
loose papers with words scribbled
knick knacks wooded and rusted,
all damp and strewn about.
It's here I am stricken, trying to make
sense of wrinkled papers
filled with ideas of an almost human nature.
As the eye blinks once more,
and the winds begin to howl
I step out into the sand,
books held against my chest,
screaming scribbled thoughts into
the swirling sky.