The poo poo of our fears

The dreary wind hisses,

in awkward tunes that clouds a wilting fate.

Then rain,
the heavenly teardrops,
seeming endless.

The soulful sky bleeds again,
to overfill ones hopelessness,
to further ones emptiness of the will to win again.

Pale grey eyes,
deep into that which has no image,
the mind dwells in thoughts that lack meaning.

The screaming silence,
terrorises melancholic hope.

The tempest of impunity rages in earthly passion,
once given,
life now draws last rivulets of faith.

We saw them before,
we knew who they were,
in enjoying the poo-poo of our fears,
we let it be.

The storm is coming,
the last grasp,
will only be on a straw
that snaps before the storm.

Ora pro nobis.