Ode to the Storm

A bleeding pen, a rusted over knife –

instruments of an architect of life,

for mine was never one gifted or grown,

but forged in fire, built from blood and bone.

Phantom claws rake their way across my skin.

Through the shattered windows, the tides flood in.

I stand in the cold, soaking in the squall.

while I hold my misery in my thrall.