On the wings of furious winds, piercing like needles to my bones,
Watery eyes beholden to the sight, waiting for the lightning to strike,
Drooping trees turning green to grey as if refusing to stand in the way.
A maddening glint in my eyes, and on the lips an unrepentant smile,
Mangled but erect, on my feet still, hunched like a bull,
A dark silhouette full of rage, staring deep into the gathering storm.
Sufferance when pushed, burns the blood and drowns our soul,
And it oozes like pus out of our bloodied selves, toxicating all that passes near.
Eighteen with four to go, wonder if I can withstand these storms any more,
Teeth clenched and bracing for the impact, but will I be standing still when this one ends?
