By Nabs

Have you ever heard
the sound of the wind dying?

It sounds a lot like your hoarse crying.

Broken moons, stifled sobs
smell of cardamom and pain.
Angry strokes, lightning brush
across this singed canvas.

Paint me with a storm.
Paint me with a storm.

Guttural rumble of disagreement,
muted in its pallor.
Second hand embarrassment
is lethal to the skin.

Broken bottles, broken souls
stuck in a machination of malfunctioning systems.
we never had control in the first place.

We put energies in our sorrows,
forgetting to store them for our backbone.
No wonder we can't stand straight
and look up to the sun.

"Amnesia", we would plead.
Cause all we remember is how to bleed.

Have you ever heard
the sound of the wind dying?

It sounds a lot like the day we went crashing.