The Wind

My thoughts lay printed on sheets of paper,
Stored in the drawer of my mind.
They are organized, neat,
Nothing out of place.

They can't be touched by outside strangers,
Filled with dangers and cruel intentions.
I'm the only one with the key,
To this infinite drawer with ideas.

But sometimes a foreign gust of wind comes,
It rattles and shakes the knob to this drawer.
Each day getting stronger and stronger,
Closer and closer to freeing those papers.

The enemy, the wind is a master of uncovering.
Of daintily plucking out my papers
Like dandelions on a vast field,
To blow and disperse the seeds to unknown areas.

It does it so discreetly, that I don't realize its actions
Until that very last moment
When the wind turns into a hurricane
And the drawer is finally broken into.

My papers fly out to this hurricane.
Crinkling, tossing, turning.
A complete mess of black and white figures,
Soaring at high speeds in the whirlwind.

I'm stuck in the eye of the hurricane.
Huffing and puffing, jumping and reaching,
To retrieve my sacred papers.
Although I know it's impossible.

I must wait for it to move on,
And pick up each paper, piece by piece.
Eventually I'll find most of my thoughts,
To put back in the drawer, for the wind to come again.