Nailbed, hot stone.
A simmering anger, old.
Heavy.

Some battling debate of
loss thrown away.
A small, gray key.
Join them on a ring and
give back, give back, give back.

See now, new currents drag my pennies.
Down.
I'm an octopus penning idiocy.
The counter, brown.
Such a small counter.

But this small key, so heavy to give away.
Is it loss or thrown away?
If so, who did it?

Mind never grasped the sorrow,
the secrets, hid in serpent of glimmered italics
and windfalls left fractured for years
rediscovered in haste of other dilemmas.

Ok, it'll be three dollars (and a bit).
That's all it took a heart to turn.
Ashen walks and stale apple pie,
unstately promise.

It needn't rhymy.
I have no more timey.
Another chunk of sanity slides
(and that bit).

WILD IS THE WIND

Furious is the trashing wind as it hisses thus louder
Thrashing, banging against the gaped mouth of the thunderous sky
Haggardly the darkened night wheezes with unruly quack of thunder

All birds stay waylaid; this is an unstately state of ugly rainfall
Again and again crashing, thrashing once more and thus the moon grows bald
Groaning a rambunctious rumble of jumble of allusive cracked acoustics

On and on and on does it reign a state of roaring hail of sleet
Piercing the all uprooted unprotected lush land of trees
A noise that pirates far into the darkened horizon

An emergency so energetically fierce like a woman had been scorned
Oh, how she's blaring a war against all the varsity of blundering of men
All the sacred flowers have been torn and driven away from the thrashing ride

That her wild thrashing gasps of rasps forcefully zooms
Until long past the hour,  rhythmic forces a tremendous flow as soon
While until she slowly and slowly thus then pauses

To finally she cascades to pause a finality of a mellow tune
As if she's been sedated and thus flails a final docile wail
Oh of her final destruction this rampaging, thrashing wind as if nothing ever happened.