A Storm Inside (A Scholarship Entry)
To feel, we found. To seek, we felt.
When did blades become pens?
-the night breathing on skin as a transitive paper.
When did clouds become canvases?
Even as the evening begged for day to push on -
Where was the iridescent wind then -
In that silent storm.
And what did it whisper, within itself,
And why?
Why did the lightning remember it?
Was it to make the wind jealous?
This poem is about:
Me
Our world