The wind howls
as the trees bow submissively,
bent to the will
of the secrets of the world,
whispering threats of destruction
through the pines, shaking
the roots of their foundation
as they tremble at the authority
of the booming bassline
resounding across the crooked canopies
of the vast expanse of thunderheads
dominating the starlit heavens
as their bellows send me reeling
through the clouds, resurrecting
lives long since past,
reliving the memories in vivid recollection,
a slideshow of moments
captured in a florescent show of colour,
abandoning me to stumble
through the storm
with not a sense of direction
to guide these weary wings where.

I have arrived at the gates,
ominously layered with the stifling
scent of death, only shadowed
by an ancient spire to take roost.
Guide me through the storms
which plague this life.