blight all hail the wind that blows before me …
all hail the wind that blows before me
swirling from the inkpots of the dark hate
cold is the breeze that confronts my footsteps
whose firm echoes flee into the shadows of the rear
it is a cursed path on which i tread unforgivingly
of which evil intent rises sardonically as light falls
walking with my hands folded gently in my pockets
for fear of the bitterness
head bent low as though the air around me were sheets
of thunderous rain or frosted snow
the warm breath i exhale is blown back on my cheeks
returned as fleeting slaps, or calm caresses
it is a time at which a hooded cape might well fit my description
a dark figure passing by at night, to whither lands?
my business is my own.
the dark shape scurries across the path, down and up the drain
into a depression in the grass previously unseen
a mouse, might it seek refuge in better places