The wind sets fire to my soul
As it blows and breathes through my internal core;
It rushes through like a bandit in the night,
Stealing what life it can from the meager lives it attacks.
The wind chills my bones
As I stand there bracing myself against its rage;
It rips through my body,
Attacking my bones to their marrow,
Wiping out what little warmth I could still provide.
The wind whips and beats the ground and trees in its path,
Threshing them like wheat,
Sickles in its icy clutches;
It reaps and it rapes hauling out the life
Of these bitter objects of despair
Leaving them worse for wear,
Dry as an old woman,
Its ripeness all lost.
The wind is disaster, fear and distrust,
I thrash and rebel against its pure lust;
May hell hath its fury and bitter disgust,
Against this dastardly wind,
And its encompassing wrath.