Hands To Catch Me

A driving force,
Pressing the inner most depths,
Striking the same cords of the heart,
A song that pours through
Tears lavished with the deepest
Of regrets.
Sadly I can't even cry,
Just remain within the wind
And the rain as it beats against me.
What is a man to the tempest,
Or the tempest to the man?
To the the tempest,
Just another splotch of existence
Caught in it's path of influence?
Just some thing to consume in a
Manner completely unforgivable?
A grand evil composed by the hands
Of Satan?
The Divine's way of punishing?
Many a tempest have scarred mind
And spirit again and again,
To a man,
A tempest has many a meanings,
Some cruel and terrible,
Some of heaven,
Some just are.
To me,
A tempest is just a tempest,
Life's little way of saying,
"Hello, I'm still here."
But what matters in the end
Is whether you choose to run,
To weep,
To fight,
To die,
Or to dance.
In these moments of uncertainty
I just choose to dance,
To just smile and laugh.
For where doth the winnowing winds blow?
Nobody sees,
Nobody knows. But what I do know is there are always Hands to catch me.