In solitude you await the storm,
you plant your feet on the ground.
Stood by the lost, there you mourn,
there you wait, for a sound.
Black clouds billow and surge,
as they reach full capacity.
Soon, the rain, will be purged,
and you cry at God's tenacity.
The weight of the wounds,
unrelenting is the suffering.
The edges of your soul pruned,
washed away with the guttering.
Then the moment will arise,
when to the mountains look your eyes.
When the storm quietens outside,
and moves to your heart, where it will reside.
But because scar tissue is tougher,
where in unhealed wounds you whimper and suffer.
Because courage wins more wars,
and so to anger, you close the doors.
