Silver Words on Burned Pages

The Tempest

For she is born of the winds

Sky around her twisting in a cacophony of whispered things

Shall she be moral? Shall she be nice?

All depends how the world treats her, and her inner spark

And so with Tempest Moon

Who awakens in the dead of the cold night

Blanched of color and hope and dreams

For in the seasons of the dark, sometimes we are weak

The Tempest Storm prevails

For the most part, anyways

She brings new ideas, little thoughts thought before but new to her

Until she falls again, unreal

Is she Tempest Storm or Moon?

Colorless or full of life

With a husband, as a wife

Or wishing she'd always been alone and never cursed him with her presence

I trot home beneath the lamplights

Broken with determination beyond me

Because those of us gifted as a hope for this world

Very rarely want to live; because only those that suffer can dream