by Stefon Napier01 Aug 2013
On the days the winds are sick
I stay inside and look at pale windows.
Nothing to do but be worn,dry and hollow
Thinking about the future when the breeze will excite
Running before a tempest
Shoes off and gone
Pitched hay stinging my shoulders
Rain spearing my head
Cackling in joy and almost singing
Staying ahead of the wind in earnest
yet screaming how the world is mad.