A storm is supposed to pass, but these days, a storm is something more.
A storm is a cloud rolling and rolling and hurling repetitions of itself, out of itself,
without ever stopping, without ever spinning the centre of the wave
because it itself is the eye, all-seeing but unseeable.
A storm is supposed to pass, but these days, it’s just a touch
Not even heard in echoes but in the mind that is somehow more profound
a footprint than a million unnamed feet, a million hearts you do not know
because a storm you can define but can never really settle.
This storm is supposed to pass, but these days, it breaks
off into leaking hourglass and spitting sand specks that are impossible to catch
and impossible to avoid, and dying to escape the burial of a windless grave,
because the storm is wind and we’re all trying to escape the life it gives.