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Why The Storms Bear Human Names
This winter whispers and frosts over my bones
It convinces me I will never be warm again.
This summer roars and lights a fire under me
It convinces me I will never be cold again.
This moment
—longer, more sorrowful than it has any right to be—
holds me still
It convinces me I will never feel loved again.
This moment
—permanently, yet more fleeting than it has any right to be—
holds me close
It convinces me I will never feel lonely again.
This storm,
cleaving through the lands,
Howling.
It convinces us that the sky is falling; the world is ending
But creation is always found in the rubble of destruction.
And though the storms seem never-ending, it will pass.
We’ll live again,
Ricocheting between the extremes.
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