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.
It has been long since I've written any work of significance here,
And for now it shall remain that way.
In that time
I'd forgotten what I'd believed in
In this brief non-fiction of mine
From who I am - who I want to be,
What I love - but that is unimportant.
Maybe I shall return
When - if -
I do.
But as to that
I make no comment.
I don't believe in love.
Peace.
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