The Wind

The wind that howls, is the one that kills.
Blowing through these bones, coming down the hills.
Picking up like the devil’s breath.
It runs amok and hurries my death.
For though I’m not fragile as a slanted tree.
Or small, or weak and feathery.
The wind that howls is beyond my control.
It fans your flames that are burning my soul.

29/09/201929/09/2019 by Mark Ryan Categories: Devil, Poetry, soul, stormTags: art, bones, burn, burning, death, deil, fire, furt, kill, poem, Poetry, rhyming, soul, storm, tree, wind 4 Comments