Preventer Wind

About the working force.

The wind clashes unto the contours of my face
Every pour etched like the tips of a thousand spears
In a forest of well dressed men
Like the burglar I rob you from your sentiments
From the bright brim smile that hung brightly
I am the criminal
In this wicked earth
In the Gardens of my soul
In the thresholds of your pain
Within the gloom of your twilight.