It feels like it's blowing right through me.
Swooping and swooshing inside and out,
Through the intricate curves of my body,
Through the winding trail of my conscience.
There's nothing there to collide,
Nothing to block the icy draft.
No substance to act as a barrier,
Against the tossing tempest.
Innards sculpted into a howling tunnel,
A disposition of emptiness.
Where has the passion gone?