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 … Continue reading “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.”