May wind

Sometimes it is hot then it is cold and when it is not,
it’s in a rush: this May wind is blowing fast.
Battered hope is forced to silently cheer for forbidden dreams,
which refuse to take their seats in the past.
It sprints and won’t cease to verify what it is smoothly
whisking away: my sanity misplaced in the trash.
It passes in pride as if it haunts with the consent of Force
yet oblivious as if it lacks light in its flash.

It precipitates frigidly and raids houses,
usurping the perpetual contentment without contestation.
Inertness is evoked; the fervent green is blistered brown;
while it dances swiftly without hesitation.
Legs are wholly enslaved to motivation, while
motivation is entangled in its flattering web of stagnation.
The picture perfect now dines in winter;
while breath is now smoke with lungs in gradual deterioration.

It manipulates its sizzling hum into the sun’s head,
converting the shining star to dim in calmness.
The sun’s eyes boils red; meditating in anger,
planning not to shimmer but to burn in fullness.
Pollution is blamed, Global warming is framed,
and frustrations are flamed, eradicating common sense.
But perplexity lies in the heart of it
that exhibits its presence with a driving sound of deviousness.

The May wind