The Storm Poem by lucky brown

The storm is over we all in persons are basked under cheer the morrows are the sabbath we go and bed our heads in battling prayer i repeat For our hope has grown moustachoid like a bearded old man. Then it recomes this time with greater glory than that mere swirling tornadoes last night that rid my courage with its norcturn blast that trumpet sound down in the conscience of my judgment With its pointed tail whistling from the four cardinals wrinkling brown roofs seen embracing the air sun hung clothes flying over limited skies pants and bras dancing in the air witty village children rapturously speaking with the wind Dust and sand sheltering into our staring nervous eyes pinned off roofs laugh with their structures womens back covering their suckling babies face under arms running helter skelter lightening and thunders wail around with hooded rainclouds gathering trees obeying their beckoning master dancing according to its beckon litters gathering theirselves in bunch or scattering everywhere irrespect of the glorious swirling wind breaking into locks stocks and barrels with its leg as the leg one hand holding mirror god Asisa of the preying wind we would remain in bedding our heads inspite in refuge prayer.