Where is the eye of the storm
when the frenzied swoop of listless air has no eyes

Who has seen a banshee scream
when its borne out of the excitable imagination of lore

So in the pitter patter of rainfalls
hear not rhythms but water droplets crashing in minuscule

Such is not bird's eye view
the wingless in vainglorious pretensions they see as soaring birds

The darkness of an unlit chamber
is  far from the darkness of the cloying night in all its blackest glory

So what do we think we really know
when we see through feet and dress others in the hate of our tattered rags and threadbare souls

On the left side of leftovers we swim against the tides and fish on dry golden sands