Bold of I on storming weathered wings
to walk the forest threatening
to temper like a thwarted lover,
while blackened clouds, a haven dark
etch prophecies in rotting bark
with green-mossed fingers.
Thunder rumbles bones
of fallen trees, speckled stones,
it is I alone, guided by a crackling light
a winding path, who understands
the tempest's wrath...
gnashing teeth, chill of breath
ripping holes in heaven's chest
awhile dark blood stains
billowing sheets of sky,
the quickened river bed draws nigh,
pulling saplings from shore's grasp
wrenching them away at last-
to disappear beneath the surface.