The wind howls like the alpha leading the pack, its gusts a scythe on the neck and back. It forcibly sunders with such attack that I cannot react to steady my aim. It pushes me out of this shaken frame. I cannot tame the God of Wind, or His Brother's pow'rs here within a world in which I cannot name. It's all the same as way back when my sturdy structure was rearranged into a fractured, mangled hair. In all despair, I gave up the game. What's rare in fact is deep in that idealistic proposal to switch the track, I somehow remained to stay intact while still disposing of the racks in which my birth was purposefully claimed. How am I now the one to blame if I bear no seeds to plant thy name? With such disdain I disavow the very name I once avowed to once reclaim and make renowned within this coarse, endowed domain. In the now I forsake such prodigious false acclaim. Somehow I've maintained the structure that once stood, though in the end it does no good, for if the end is imminent then eminence is purposeless, yet here I sit and circumvent this parliament of practices in circles spun in circles spent. It all whirls 'round just as the wind, and so it howls till my descent. Pushed to the ground in impotence, the wind will sound deliverance. I must admit, the wind brings air, and I don't care that I'm full of it.