Strangera Storm.

As the storm grows, with flooding rain,
thundering screams fill the sky.
Magenta seeping slow, by my lovera name,
I suffocate willingly.

It burns, it burns, mother.
Father, sister, friend, stranger.
I plan my escape, meticulously.

The weather rips my clothes, but I crave the pain.
Venturing crows, watchful of prey.
Magenta sinking low, by my lovera name,
I escape, fallen, barely.

I dona know, dona know, dona row.
Stranger, who are you? Why?
The storm grows.

Penned by my hand on the 17th of Phaestian, in the year 917 AF.