Poem: The Storm in Ann

ImageCrashing, loud, fiery, fighting against nothing. Fleeting moments of clarity, victory brilliance.

Flares burning, flawlessly in the sky

Chronic pain like a cigarette burning,

Open the door, eyes looking in,

An optimist with no hope, crowned the queen of underdogs. My skin, my saddle, my mind, my rider. What riddle must I solve to avoid the repossession of my soul.

The moccasin of you that softened every step is lost, stolen by the clever crow, who came in the early morning mist, and the chill will never leave, as I stand on the bluff and call your name.

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