wound and winded.

wind up your gears,
and let the wind fill your sails,
it's friday,
it's flippin' raging and stormswept,
and that crisp swan-song sawn-spruce smell is in the air.
mountain tops, my ninjas.
that's where i dwell.
and reside.
ohhhh, sh!t.
perpetually looking down on those of lower elevation,
berserker barbarian battle beasts reach pinnacles, kids.
because not giving a flyin' mutha-uck is how we get busy.
at the top, i mean.
of the mountains.
where we dwell.
and reside.
those gusts and gales can't dislodge us from our spots, either.
the fortress is too strong to wear away from hard air flow.
cross-currents of breathable fluid and forceful, oxygen-rich atmosphere
can't hold a blow-hard huff'n'puff wolf-bellow to our spot.
that's word.
and that's not all;
i'm grinding, ninjas.
grrrrrinding.
work. work. work.
all work.
and no play.
if not for the wind,
and the blown-in answers,
i'd think that the secret universal plan was holding out on me.
there's a definite disturbance in the force.
if you can't feel it,
i can't feel YOU.
i'm sayin',
strange doings are afoot in the overlapping concentric social circles
of the woodsly warrior realm.
it blows.
and breaks.
like the wind.
c'mon;
never quiet, never soft.....