Burning Brigade of Saintly Winds

Willfully I sit from dusk to dawn,
on the fold of my bed scratching the
itch that dwells in my thoughts.
Languid illusions scatter before
marble eyes like desolate waters that
wander thru a lagoon.
I am not the feathered crow who
lunged into his burning brigade.
Oh saintly winds that dance with
trembling trees, won't you caress a
vagrant such as me, who kneels before
the plowed spirit whose touch
illuminates duress of fine linen?
I come to behold your musical tears
with ever so loving hands.
The back of his bread is broken in
two, and so I offer the worldly
esteem unto you.
Don't beseech me thru folly and
darkness, but allow me the docile
waters to drink of your rustic clouds
that humble me with their laughter
of giant proportion.