The Storm

The Storm

The past it reigns with no escape. it returns -and remains.
The future holds a maze untold -and hope sustains.

A never ending fain of hunger pains. A language learned, forever blessed
In youthful veins.

The winter night must bear the crops of new beginning. Cool winds and fall dew shall drop the cloak of lightened gleanings.

Endangered minds whom scar the flesh with humble trimmings. Might make a life at lesser stage to write my ending.

A hungry guilt doth bend the truth of bright pretending. An honest fight that meets the light to righteous fending.

A skillful strife might mention thought of childish bearing. That end in might will fill the night with rightful lending.

The guilt I feel whilst tending tea with clever selling. For sense of spite this endless fight shall mend with telling.

A helpless sense of wasted will shall right my ending.

The storm they say might end one day.

-A hopeful welling