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.
Even for something so fruitless, I'll watch them spin in counters before my eyes. The lucid black and white lights beating out towards my eyes. My mind seems wholly infertile.
Waiting for the timers to pass.
Waiting, from the mistakes I've made. I hate giving up.
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