The clouds are swollen,
suffocating the open blue.
yet
there are eyes poking through
shedding light on the lonely cobwebs
and dusty corners
that are hard to reach
in the cold.
sometimes
time is just the hour glass
spilling sand under your tongue
leaving truth that is bitter.
and the hardest part is
transition
gears become rusted without movement
the comfort of always being comfortable
can taint the mind
so
it is time to run
pour oil on the secrets
that were forgotten
this wind that blows
is a metallic symphony
and it shall blow you
where your feet are meant to be.