Wade perilously through violent flames
Decay of a thousand riddles
Of the midnight hurricanes.
Dressed in gray linen,
Eyes gazed downward,
Upon Heaven’s direction
Waiting for some sort of cleansing,
Through one headlight.
Lost in the high lighted directions

(left, right, east 2.6 miles)

Tossed out to sea,
Follow the blue-lit eye
Of our storm
To illuminate every imperfect beauty,
Upon balanced Braille on your heart’s sleeve.