Not gone with the wind

As I quietly lay in my bed that night,
I could hear the soft wind rustle gently against the window panes,
As the night went on,
The wind whistled, bellowed, strengthened its fervour,
Made its presence felt.

Thunderous nights often lead to strange dreams.

Dreams where promises seem empty,
Hopes seem rusty,
Life seems unworthy.
Dreams wherein dreams die.

I can hear the soft wind rustling gently against the window panes, tonight.


Picture by Sahasara