“The wind is howling, turning raindrops into bristling needles on my arms, and in that familiar pain I can almost remember where the scars all started.”

You don’t have to be afraid,

My sweet primrose,

Of the coming storm.

The clouds are rolling in,

And in that gray wave

The Lions of the sky reign.

Their manes, majestic ash,

With roars born

From a clash of light

Fighting to find solid ground.

Look past the lightning,

And listen for the moments

Between the Thunder;

A storm is nothing more

Than a lonely sky

Searching for a home.

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