The Tempest :: Tempest Storm :: Poem II

The Tempest

For she is born of the winds
Sky around her twisting in a cacophony of whispered things
Shall she be moral? Shall she be nice?
All depends how the world treats her, and her inner spark

And so with Tempest Moon
Who awakens in the dead of the cold night
Blanched of color and hope and dreams
For in the seasons of the dark, sometimes we are weak

The Tempest Storm prevails
For the most part, anyways
She brings new ideas, little thoughts thought before but new to her
Until she falls again, unreal

Is she Tempest Storm or Moon?
Colorless or full of life
With a husband, as a wife
Or wishing she'd always been alone and never cursed him with her presence

I trot home beneath the lamplights
Broken with determination beyond me
Because those of us gifted as a hope for this world
Very rarely want to live; because only those that suffer can dream