What raging storm doth blow within this mind,
So racked with conflict, and brews the darkened sky
Of my imagination? What torrential stream of wind
And sleet hath disturbed my spirit, content to lie
In the warmth of your glance, now made blind
By the tempest fierce and loud inside? Yet look not to the sky,
Its broad expanse dimmed, its massive dome slated, to find
The source of this disturbance. No, indeed, one must rely
Instead on the cooler rocks below, the mountains that grind
Deep beneath the surface of this flesh, this earth of dry
Thoughts and dead hopes, and skewed vows of a kind
That never more shall be uttered—These! These, belie
The true origins of this ghastly gale, this guillotined
Remnant of a lovely day, and do make my soul to cry
Out, cry out against the cruelty of deep-rooted injuries that bind
My tongue. But the storm persists, for I have yet a will to try.
And try I must, should I choose to endeavor;
For you would I struggle and flounder forever.