F43-10

Hue and cry

for the whirlwind and it's trail of omnishambles! 

Long broken by the deluge of it's rage,  

my skin has gone numb!

Where are the hero's they promised?

"They are inside you!", say the papers.

Japers!

I hold fast for another gale

And while the wind whips past 

against my calloused chest

I long...to let...go...

But the dear little faces,

the ones that steer my tendencies

and call me to my feet, what would they say?  

What would they say?

So the Wicked Winds whip

and when I cry for sorrow

He turns black and teases, "why?"

At dawn I survey the wreckage.

But the lawn is mowed crisp,

the roof doesn't leak

and They say how blessed, how blessed!

Behind glass I drift to natural winds.

Paths of Hydrangeas where woods hide waterfalls

and mystics go to awaken their bodies with wild water.

Where words born from feral, undressed places find shape 

An island with a black and white church by the shore.

Ten steps, a bell and pictures painted porcelain blue.

A kindly lady ties my hair and fastens my sash.

I process upward for the healing 

and by a gentle breeze my skin comes to life.