There's always a ringing
like gunshots
in succession
or a bellowing from
some heaven
I can't help but
feel grace
when the clouds
give sway
to gentle sun rays
on my sallow frame
Until I'm reminded
by the old man in
my head who
tells me it's only
the wind changing face.
White paint on a
blue field
that gives way to
gentle sighs from
any direction
any passing cry
and that reminds
me of someone I
don't want to be.