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.
I am suited to innocence as much as whiteness,
And the dark skies witness behaved-ones.
Looking in my direction the sunly objects fit my eye,
Once ago I say.
Too much is known and forgiven of late,
Late work is made of love fortunately on a saying
That indicated the holiness of mine:
To see God and be a part of it.