Off the shore,
A twisting grey iris prepares it's siege.
Out on the swell
You can hear the wind scream and bleed.
In on the inland,
The yahoos all worship their fires,
And the Houyhnhnms run for higher ground.
There's a reason we'll never win,
Cause the wind is a curse and it is a sound.
So pack your bags, and launch out for the plank,
All ye yahoos, we've got spirits aplenty to be drank.
So pack your bags, and launch out for the hills,
All ye Houyhnhnms, we've nothing of cheap thrills.
Off the shore
A weather god plows ahead with vengeance.
Out on the swell
Is the only place you'll find beauty in the dissonance.
In on the inland,
I'll sleep til the erosion stops,
And when all of our eye is open, and light pours in,
Love will blind us, wrought and gropin, heart-blood coursin.
Author notes
hurricane season
really it's kind about how it makes people act
A contest entry
- Seasons... [prewrites permitted] =] by sora..
600 points, ended September 20, 2008, 59 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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eep!
one mother of a storm is right, eh?
i love this, "a twisting grey iris", in particular.
=]
good work + good luck!
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Wow! Beautiful look at what appears to be one Mother of a storm.
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