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.
The appearance was calm like committing of heads
In youthful triumph, this cruel rage had abated
After the thousands of mighty warriors were put down.
The crime of scribes was promised by the last ones,
Possessing the life of capillaries, as the dress of buttons
Created other buttons so wonderful and sad.
The calm natures of the balms were inside the body,
Polite and excitable, in ways of the hundreds of degrees.
My apparent joy was compressed with just followers,