The Wind Whisperer
The cadence of a cold heart, caught on the cruel, bitter winds of the world. Drifting, endlessly, falling closer to the ground, but never quite reaching. An illusion of flying. If you can...catch me... :)
A story. An open ended question. If you could dance along the riverbanks of each waking morning, what colour would the sunrise paint your eyes? If this were a ballet, our feet would stay upon the ground. But we'd like to think otherwise, wouldn't we? Maybe this story is a pretty good one. Maybe the glove doesn't fit the hand. Maybe the glove just fits.
Is today a new day? I'm unsure. Where do we draw the line? A sonnet of hours, a cadence of first light across the sprinkling of winter snow, or something more to the heart?
But of course I'm being foolish. A day is a scientific classification and, therefore clearly, a sonnet of hours.
0 whispers:
Post a Comment