For Every Storm
For every storm there is a room
And find the palace now,
From deserts are a tomb and gloom,
Where clothes must just allow.
The clothing kisses us on cheek,
When effort made us worse,
The cloth we wear is rather chic,
And worry is a curse.
The storm shall grow at all the speed
That problems make us mad,
You did not follow, or then bleed
As madness is your dad.
Wonder At All
All you do is talk of why I was true,
All of me is saying pleasant news you;
Almost far I push the leather at whim,
So to enhance my living at being dim.
Wonder can exist in shades of sorting out,
To keep quiet all silence and restore pout;
So all of us who always are in power, snow.
Where do you live? among the trees?
Are you forgotten, or upset? I give status