A gentle breeze on a late summer night sways the trees lightly.
Winter comes and with it, change.
Cold, strong wind, dying plants, snow.
The new wind picks up speed and makes the trees follow it's path.
A plastic bag flies up to the sky and comes down with a harsh push.
Who will it reach?
What does it carry on its journey?
Maybe it carries a letter, or maybe it is empty.
This wind that can be harsh and brutal,
but it can also be light and gentle.
It can bring new adventures and it can force change upon its grand journey.
what is sand
but the finest of glass?
and what are bones
but the finest of ash?
and you may try to crush
me down into the finest of elements,
reduce me to nothingness,
blow me to the wind.
but I have a talent
for rising again,
you cannot keep me down for long.
"No!" - He protested
Yes, he had said that she was like lightning,
but he meant that she startled him
with her randomness
and not that she pulsated
writing a spiderweb
into the nights sky;
it was that she filled him with a certain
and no, that nervousness was not
like an electricity.
And while the argument continued
it was brought up that he had also compared her to a storm.
It wasn't because she climbed with a certain
like the tides
or that she was the perfect mix
of calm pretense
and wuthering looks.
It was more because she reminded him of the rains
lightly dancing on his bedroom window
making him dream.
Listen to the howling wind
Not a whisper in the voice of it
An embodiment of all the aimlessness
And the chaos which was once within
This heaving chest
And beating heart
Which is now outside
Cold and lying bitter still
And howling like mother nature had tanned its hide
Listen to such a wind as this
And you will understand what it is
And what it means to be trapped inside such bitterness
As the howling wind does speak of it