As I sit by the window, a blistering wind bellows
Howling at me, howling for a reason - I question.
The statue angels in the rose garden below listen in.
I close the creaking window. I shut my book on the rose colored cushion.
My reflection leaves me, alone......
The wind blows - and the window blows, open, I did not touch - anything.
Again, I close the window, the hollowing blows the trees down, but my period on sentences for myself make me shout inside me.
The written notes with scattered arrows, the massive circle in the center with a question mark - all scattered on the cushion. And as the trees shake and children scream below me, the question marks grow bolder.
My truth?
My purpose?
My intuition?
I hear a sharp shout calling my name, which does not have handed flowers in its tone. I wake down stairs. And as I close the door the paper I drew on falls to the floor,
Where dust resides
Leaving your passion and self behind to go to do something that you do not care for
