A Writer on the storm

A writer on the storm, I’m a poet out of form
Awake from a long sleep, I stand at the brink of dawn
Rigging the thoughts of an honest mind,
I convince myself to have done no crime.

The old song has hit a new note
Dressed to kill, I run out wearing my black coat
The alley of fortune has let me walk it again
Darker is the night, so is the hour, through this lane.

The fire bird came home to me, brought some glee
She kills the silence, only to save me
And now our music is louder than our feeling
Hold the smile; it’s the key to my breathing.

Beneath the fire of passion, unfolds the story,
Of a sleeping desire that holds within, a little fury
This feeling has pushed me to the helm of unknown
Now I’m gone, but my shadow waits all alone.

Thinking of the loudest laugh that made me cry,
I figure, this is a speech that’s bound to be wry
Blowing in a wind, the boat ride is not free
The dock awaits the rocky rider and the beloved sea.

Letting go the still moment, the night has finally turned to dawn
The touch and the passion have left, but they’re still not gone
A brush of skin has poked an old wound
One that seems to remind me of a long gone moon.