turning finally to the east
where the wind hacks hard
into my creased and cracked face

until I must bow my ancient head
before the howling gale bearing 
down upon the path I so blithely tread

an ugly vortex of splintered
lies and deceptions twisting the way
before my blurred tearing eyes

grinding leaf stick and branch
pebble rock and boulder to an 
unlikely stew boiling to nothing

shards and sharp splinters
of failed schemes and plots
brought about by the damned

and nurtured by fools.