The Sound of the Wind

The roaring gale sweeps across time and space
Its infinite sadness is heard audibly and distinct
Music can be drowned by its sheer force
Its wintry cry demands to be heard across the plains
A young man coming up the path is prepared for its madness
For he too may be mad inside, yet not in brutal anger
The one who dreams incessantly, surely without end
He hears the wind call his name as he drudges his path this morn
He hears all the names the gale would mention
Some of them from years past, Others from just yesterday
Warbling out notes to break the dreamer's spirit
Its wintry blast must beckon from the Ancient One
Beelzebub would sow confusion upon any and all hearts
Unshaken by mere tricks of nature, the dreamer moves on
Wrapping his face in the cloth of a Lamb, he fights the biting sting
Mad with determination some would say, the heart of a lion
To hear and ignore the callous questions of the wind takes gall
For its shrieking sound can deafen even the insane
Ripping sand from the path, it blasts upon the man's face
He blinks without cringe, does not miss a step
Many days since he's seen the Sun, surely it comes soon on the horizon
This morning's walk has just began