Howling wind at new moon and its noise,
winged seeds and debridge in determined voice.
Darkness and dusted sculptures in cold demand,
fierce presence of ghosts in dust of sand.
Bending, waving, cracking trees in form to this,
rendezvous with dangerous power harmonies.
Restless spirits taken on regions of dark air,
creating memories of vulnerability still there.
Hearing the rapture coming with a banging door,
excited dust whirling of the floor.
Voices from the kingdom of venerable souls,
crying for respect as the tumbleweed rolls.
Omens of natures for the sensationalized race,
divine virtue for seers reborn through grace.
Wakeful in the eye of the storm to consecrate,
the useless masks for airborne virus that mutate.
The soul that rises with us from dust to dust,
needs earth elements as immunity trust.
In utter nakedness of faith we do come,
weaving spirits of trust that takes us home.
Friday, March 19, 2021
Topic(s) of this poem: spirituality