The trees speak for more than the wind
as I become the devouring maelstrom:
my body is a cloud, my voice is a hollow howl,
my feet are roots torn from their gravelly homes.
These old bones urge this young body to flee,
to take shelter in the creaks and the whispers,
in the ghosts of comforts now long gone,
in memories tethered by tenuous strings.
Yet the rain falls upon me and feeds a deep well,
and soon I am neither flesh nor bone but
the thunder of clouds, the bellow of wind,
the sky become death incarnate.
I see nothing but a fearful chorus of trees,
hear nothing but a cry echoed and reverberated.
No earthly force creates this consuming madness;
it is only my soul that sustains the chaos.
These eyes full of death search the empty sky and
tell of a place beyond the storm’s rage, beyond the
gray veil of sky, beyond even the light of the sun,
where stars wander across a deep and silent dark.