In the wind I feel the shaking fingers of hope run across the scars and scabs that make my arms, wrists, hands, knuckles and fingertips and in the pale light they quiver, ready.
But in the rushing air of the night I cower.
Such a stark contrast.
I have no pity for the pathetic.
No sympathy for the weak
And needy.
I will not let them suck the life from me with there whimpering woes and words of fate.
I am cruel and undone in the night.
I am a God with no food.
No rest for the wicked.
