Soul Weather

The dust rises in my heart,

like feathers on a bird.

Speaking it's mind to passerby,

in this case it's you.

Tornadoes wrap tightly around my internal garden of thoughts,

waiting to be harvested.

Storms are raging,

my kindling is growing inferior,

as thoughts are pulled up like weeds,

and my forest of love is no longer green.

Tornadoes and fire touch,

they form one and thrash my dreams,

only to break apart,

cracking like the thunder,

the ripping of my favorite brain fittings.

I hyperventilate as it grows humid,

my palm trees sway harshly,

my ocean begins to cry.

Lightening dotting my memory,

good things disappearing,

incinerating.

Will I remember?

Can I search through the debris?

We need to talk about the weather of my soul,

before it starts to lose everything.