Windward the coming, shadows engrossed,
idle the ignorant, sheep so morose,
and in the light approaching,
the righteous calm and accepting,
the dark becomes darker,
yet the light ever-reaching.
And storms just the surface
of imbalance yet to reveal,
the end of all endings, the yield of all yields,
and screams of panic resound in my head,
innocence stripped from the words we have said,
as the hammer strikes the anvil.
And the woes of the world
are but a tea leaf in a cup,
the dark becomes darker and the pain not enough,
as imbalance entreats the coming,
as storms mark the source,
light becomes fire and breathing remorse.
Windward the coming and leeward the pass,
shadows the vile, remnants of past,
as cleansing the pure and the fire repast,
to cull all the horrors,
to wipe clean the voracious
and by greed the dark masters we are.
How I grieve the storm,
the coming too much for a soul to abhor,
and calm I shall be in the acceptance,
the cathartic means of expression,
to know of the need for a change never made,
and a sadness to witness completion.
Yet light refused to dim,
souls accepting the sins,
and I know there is life beyond all the strife,
in hope do I hold, in death I’m not sold,
and by candles I’ll wait till the storm does abate,
and beginnings are beginnings again.
Tony DeLorger © 2017
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