War of the Wind

The wind

Sharpens her knife

To an icy tip

She cuts,

Slashes up the sky

Making it bleed

Ripe reds and blazing oranges

The pale clouds are soaked

From the fresh wound

They can not stop the bleeding

The sky grows cold

Her lips turn purple

Then black

And she is still

The universe mourns

Candles litter the sky

And the wind cackles her frosty delight

She does not miss the warm kiss of the sky

Which heal her freezing stabs

But no matter how sharp her sword,

How fine the blade

She cannot kill

The birth of another day

And so her war goes on