We are but rocks, being eroded away by a rushing stream.
The current is unwavering, although sometimes it's not as strong.
But river stones are very pretty; smooth and polished and clean.
We are but flowers on an open field, assaulted by the gale.
It ever blows and blows, although sometimes not as much.
But petals travel upon the winds, as our seeds do sail.
Is there beauty in our storms? They make the world look duller.
They strike the earth with streaks of fire, and roar as loud as life.
They wreck homes with gust and hail, they drain the world of color.
Their waters fill those calmless streams, they slide away the ground.
They drain the atmosphere of warmth, life looks very bleak.
They promote illness, weakness, and destruction abound.
I cannot say the storm will end, (for it may never do so).
But we can hide where it is warm, and pretend it is not there.
We have whole worlds that we can go, like Tandamet, Entium, and Kuso.
I know my syllable count and rhyme schemes weak, I don't really care.
There's more purpose to this and other poems than being proper, after all.
Writing poetry was once my healing light when my life fell to despair.
I love the fact that we are rocks, despite the water's swishes.
I love the fact that we too are flowers, forget about the wind.
For not only are we solid, our petals, too, are wishes.