A storm to never pass

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.

 

 

 

 

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Purpose, where are you?

Purpose. Where are you?
I found you once, now I’ve lost you
in a storm. Greying clouds coagulate,
my mind is blurred. Solidarity
is gone, I’m left to drift alone
in darkened seas, seeing nothing
but horizons I can’t reach.

This battered boat I am.
This single wandering
gaze. I’ve forgotten how to focus
and everything that once was clear,
is not.

But then I think. Maybe.
Just maybe, there’s no purpose
to be found, for purpose is
a rowing oar you forge.
Unthread that stormy sky, create
your own tiny stream of light.
Unblur your world, adjust your eyes,
open up your mind.

Purpose. There you are.