Storm

A passionate tune emerges from an otherwise standard rustle of leaf litter,
this grandest song I could not hope to arrange, could it spill forth from my efforts?
Might accidents convey to foreign ears some joy the composer overlooked?
Perhaps.
The beholders eye has frozen solid,
the word has not been spoken,
the jewels for which the battles were fought are now little more than tokens,
The gold has lost its lustre,
the diamond ran out of sparkle,
the sky was painted on a dirty table cloth,
the fool is once again empowered.
Heaven was found; they spoke fondly of hell,
heroes prayed to be saved by cowards,
Truth is false currency.
Truth is a red herring.
Truth is extinct.
A lie can at least be mirrored,
a lie at least unveils a liar!
undecided until at last become pariah.
My breath is bitter in this cold,
little flecks of frost slice my lungs and make this chill a part of me,
I find the narrows, find the narrows, find the narrows,
wave to the natives but avoid the arrows,
but don't worry;
all rivers run with blood,
run on to deltas, run from mountains, there is life in the journey.
I push out to sea, push out to sea where the waves fall like collapsing cave mouths and crush me beneath,
all seas want to consume,
but tack on, tack on,
waves want to smash,
tack on,
gold wants its lustre back and the jewels remembered how they sparkled; no more,
tack on.