Storms & Whispers

But I am a fool. A jealous man who swings from ropey greed, back and forth, the ever-tightening noose, pulled taut by the eyes that fall on you.

This is not suicide, but suicidal, doomed to the caverns of self-pity that howl and wallow to the stony existence of nobody in particular

echoing out into the valley, the valley, where the flush of rain draws near.

I can but put my hope in the hands of the wind, have faith in their power of change that so many times has swept me wrong.

But still, I’ll take my chances and pray for hurricane.