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.
Deliberate is the action that I pronounce,
On the minute, of all the hours, that laugh away.
So strong is my business contending the books,
Content in the knowledge of sentinels.
Your living is praising nobody but you,
It is an affair of compartments like rooms and boxes,
I loved all such fair thinking.