The Wind Whisperer
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.
"Discourse. A faint murmur in the ears, light upon the eyes, and flash - toes curl, numb, in endeavors. Hold tight. Eluding grasp. Feeling so vivid. This. Tapestry of ornamental beings - woven hand in hand - depicting the overture: what was, will be. Abstraction. Pedagogical. Twisting at threads - wind, unwind. Hanging on proverbial walls. Bequeathed in flames. The ink will dry. It sustains no life in itself. Leeching into dead fibers, staining the once precedence of life. Staining. Caught in windows, foot upon the ledge. Whispering, I will be the night. I thought if I trod lightly, my words would bear less weight - my heart unpitted with stones. But nothing can dull the edge. Time presses on. These words will flow, unyielding to the bitterness. And I feel, endlessly. This, eternal. This is. Endlessly. "
