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The dark and rippling winds, they toss and twist
the grey and purple clouds, creating brash,
pained tempests, raging maelstroms nebulous
and beating in my heart. Now stop! Alas!
The pain is far too sweet. In me down deep
the seeds of black obsidian ingrain.
From darkest tree whose bitter fruit I keep,
produced from sleet and hate, from sting and rain.
I feel like rushing, fist upraised, to try
and bring that boiling anger to their face.
But then her own cool gaze will catch my eye,
and drain from me the petulance of haste.
“Let’s go,” she says. Her voice cascades o’re me
and quells the squalls that otherwise would be.