Dry Season

This poem will be a part of a another series I plan to release

On the days the winds are sick
I stay inside and look at pale windows.

Nothing to do but be worn,dry and hollow

 

Thinking about the future when the breeze will excite

Cracked thunder

Running before a tempest

Shoes off and gone

Pitched hay stinging my shoulders

Rain spearing my head

Cackling in joy and almost singing

Staying ahead of the wind in earnest

yet screaming how the world is mad.