pieces of a storm

In my dream,

the weather reflects my emotions.

Not even Mother Earth could overrun

my commands.

One time I was dreaming about

the trees, they were distressed about me.

Even though, I couldn’t see the raging

forest. Plaintive music whispered out,

wrapping around be like the snake before it kills.

Apparently, I was shaking in my sleep.

Turning, twisting, flopping around

like a fish about to be killed.

Even in my slumber,

I could feel myself evolving into a torrent.

Becoming a storm is a liberating,

it lets me escape my cage of doldrums.

No longer am I two dimensional,

with the hues of the flowers blooming in my hair.

Nature is in my hand

and with a light squeeze, I could end.

Letting out years of pain into rain;

giving me a glimpse of a future,

without the rains.

However, every storm must come to an end.

Before, I destroyed the chirping of the birds.

I too surrender to the soft white glow,

the end of the evergreen nightmare.

After the storm, all that is left

is a wonder. A forest of evergreens,

where I succumb to the river’s bed.

Leaving my passage in dawn’s ink.