The wind is hard.
Quite sharp and fierce.
To the very core I'm pierced.
Inside I fear I'll soon be forced.
To get away from this horrid host.
The gusts cut me so very coarse.
The blackness spewed is so verbose.
I hate it for it's pushy boasts.
I'll now escape before I'm toast.
It pushes me madly this wicked ghost.
I'll hide inside until it dies.
Away from all these wretched lies.
Only then will I realize.
Freedom from it's killing cries.
Michael McParland's Other Poems
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