written: unknown 09

My sould spins restless
with the battering of the wind
as though the pain,
surfacing from somewhere
that imagination can not see,
has caused a catastrophe
of winded events.
the fires of the nights
blazing to clear the dead brush
of the town
fueled by the anger
beating its way
through the heart
to somewhere visible, tangible;
a place of manageability, speech, hope
a place where help,
as futile as the efforts seem
are finally able to try