This strange soul calls to mine,
Alluring, fascinating, vexing.
This strange pull, as a rapid wind,
Somehow pushing, still pulling, and taxing.
Strange spirit speaks a foreign tongue.
I speak with no tongue at all.
I would give my soul, my heart, a lung
To stop its decay. Here leaves in fall.
Strange spirit presses soft, then firm.
My spirit falters often.
Strange spirit ever lives and learns,
Cradle, sky, to coffin.
A feeling of something walking on the wind. Maybe there’s something calling out. It fades, and flounders. It buds, and builds. It overwhelms and cannot leave. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was me.