Stand in the Wind

Where the breath is a song
The whistles are the hymns
Leaves are but the silent trumpeters
A hail cloud parting way and dropping stones
Hammering doubt upon the head, how like a nail
It drives it home even further to point
But madness finds its exit
It has no limit to its splendor
Even to those thinking about it always
That shall never be enough

If only for the methods of madness
That bison which run upon the plains
It is where we consider that those creatures roam
Whether it is this plain...or perhaps a separate plane of existence
Would one know? It is ever the pressing thought
Yet through and through there is always action, that which is unclear
Something that is all and left to do

Stand in the Wind.