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.
I slip my fingers into the soft folds of snow. I know I can carve rivulets in the rich surface, biting on me skin, calling, closer closer. Is it you? I used to catch you in my embrace, tenderly masking the hot tears on your face. It's been years hasn't it? When was the last time I threw myself open armed into a waiting blanket of snow?Maybe you're not the one who has faded in the changing seasons.
2 whispers:
wow! you're a very good writer. how can nobody have discovered you yet?
new follower, dear. x
thank you truly. your blog is a thing of beauty. I am honoured you would waste your time on me.
deepest gratitude,
Jayson
Post a Comment