The wind is rampant- each breath angrier than the last, molten desire swirling, churning rage diving into aching lungs and rattling old bones. Waking dormant ghosts- too long since a haunting, body unsettled, skin too afraid for revolution, the wind is rampant.

The night could have been symphony. The night could have been tired, excited, cold crescendo- movement for the ages, leaving audience breathless, ravaged, robbed, pitiful, burning. But the wind is howling with rage and no harmony or melody was emitted last night and the audience slept soundly in their beds while concert hall laid empty and silent- the wind is rampant still. Howling still.

The coffee is a peaceful body, unlike hostile skin and bones lined with anger- the coffee is momentary creation then years silent. It is Sunday morning ritual, filtered sunlight dancing on coffee table, gentle melody over gentle soothing tongue- but the wind is too rampant and coffee too dark and mouth too bitter and bed too empty and symphony too silent for Sunday morning ritual.

My, how easily the wind blows, how powerful, how rampant. The sky’s jealous flames raining hell on peaceful ritual- perhaps today is more gust than breeze, more fire than stream, more burning than warmth.