Through swirling winds

Whistling kettles burning steam screech wildly into the night

No more, no more

I say cowering down upon the floor

But there is nowhere to hide from winter’s icy storm.

As such the bristling frozen empty branches beckon the boundless squall on

Buckling and creeking

No bird flaps to breach the fractured world

Not one peep or chirrup

The world is too busy breathing

Heavy and loud and violent.

Skin pricked and pimpled dry

Fiercely scalded by storm’s long-reaching arms

To preceed the sweeping rain

For it will come

And it will fall

As sure as porcine tears

After oh that piercing row.



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