there are shivers ‘neath the clothes
where winds had made their home
upon the cease of innocence,
the breezing knives, the bone.

good morning, princess zephyr,
how tarnished is your throne,
and why would he, the king of winds,
leave tonight, alone?

the skin that wraps a story truthful
stirring in defiance
had lost a pieced agenda sweeping
trial after trials.

in grimming awe, the northwest spread
the shaking as she weaves,
while cradles set a rhythm as
melodious as the leaves.

— A. P.

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