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.
These lights, this city.
There's nothing I can do but think,
Spinning these words around my head
Like a fucking religion
Pounding my heart
Breath through breath
Long enough to smear them down
In ink
Blood
Song
Until extracted later
Or forgotten
At your discretion What else do you want from me?
1 whispers:
this is lovely. so deep, dark, seems desperate. i love how you seem to tease magic out of mere words. x
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