Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

Tempest's harvest,
floody rain, urgent like tears,
her wind doth not
protest enough.
I watch her lash out,
hear her cries of dying birth,
disdained by weathermen,
who think they know everything
about her.

Tempest's harvest,
a twin crop, ignored,
and the have nots,
are growing like weeds.
I stumble over those fields now,
setting off hidden mines of myself,
deconstructing via henchmen,
who tell me they know
what is best.

Tempest's harvest,
the blind knight of havoc,
limp bodies in the morning light
are strewn like fallen trees.
I read the liars reviews,
but I know the truth myself.
Greed rezones comforts,
and I confess, I too,
have had more than my share.

tomorrow

we will talk about the storm in the city
the one that it´s about to be
the one that was fifteen days before
or the one that will be fifteen days after

tomorrow

-only if there is no storm-

the town´s people
will walk the streets
with the little statue
once again
traditional clothes, horses
flowers, some chants
and the beautiful silence and perfume
of the land in the spring´s border.


Arcadia

yes...

cold logic and calculation
belie the presence, the pitch
the tempest's inner fury

a tightening in the chest
a shock of pressure drop
greed attacking with gale force

greed ends the summer calm
and plunders even its own gains
blowing in on a stolen bandwagon

"and plunders even it's own gains...."

indeed mnaz. You hit it on da bullseye!
thank you!
muchly!