The Storm

The storm is raging, but the world is calm
The damage is intense but the feeling is numb
How can a whirlwind spin everything around
And yet not be able to lift you off the ground.

Take flight, O jealousy, leave me alone
Go torture one who deserves this cyclone
This disaster of a mind, this skin scrapping feeling,
You burn hopes with forest fires, unhealing.

Then when its over, take to another helpless soul
And give to him this dread of emotions untold.
For Jealousy, you are of an evil evil kind
Quit playing these unsettling games of the mind.

Broken Bodies and Breathing Souls

They flock all together, the broken of the lot,
In front of a figure that they trust to make life better.
And they cry and they scream and they cry and they scream again,
Not knowing that words are heard irrespective of actually being audible.
There is someone listening, a mother figure to be precise.
One who knows without being told, one who gives without expecting, one who answers before being asked.
And she gathers these broken bodies and weary hearts and she holds them close.
In her embrace, these bodies find themselves, they find their souls.
They breathe, at last.
In the everlasting care of this mother figure, man turns into a little child.
Ridding himself of all ego and getting down on his knees, he prays.
And somewhere in the midst of silence he finds more solace than he ever found in screams.
In that moment a hand holds his shoulder and his body isn't broken anymore.
It's breathing.