Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree

Eye

There is no calm before the storm.

This tempest is neverending. These brief moments of peace are only that.

I am the pupil, swollen by too much light, staring up into the fickle sun.

I still reside within the storm. On the horizon, I see the dark spinning clouds as they draw near to envelop me again.

I have been a sower of the wind.

I have cast my dreams like seeds into the blistering sky.

Now I must succumb to what I have become.

I am the whirlwind reaper.

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