Sep 2018
She begins to sing,
Voice Billowing,
Like the breeze,
As Sweet-gum tree's prepare for war; anticipating the winter-tide.
Bleeding red complexion,
like great armies retreating; petrified.
Her soft, cold, breath
canters across my crimson face,
Electrifying the skin with pipe dreams of summer fantasy.
The moon pale with pumpkin pigments in autumn twilight,
Chanting songs that bring the still night scampering to life.
She sings,
With taciturn tunes
and mindful musings
Calling to frigid spirit's softened screams for freedom
She sings
And with the breeze she freezes time
and see's
like the wind
She is free.
Voice Billowing,
Like the breeze,
As Sweet-gum tree's prepare for war; anticipating the winter-tide.
Bleeding red complexion,
like great armies retreating; petrified.
Her soft, cold, breath
canters across my crimson face,
Electrifying the skin with pipe dreams of summer fantasy.
The moon pale with pumpkin pigments in autumn twilight,
Chanting songs that bring the still night scampering to life.
She sings,
With taciturn tunes
and mindful musings
Calling to frigid spirit's softened screams for freedom
She sings
And with the breeze she freezes time
and see's
like the wind
She is free.
I wrote this the night my friend passed away. An interpretation of her transition into the beyond. To me, she became everything. The wind, the moon, the trees. Energy. She spoke to me with every gust. Flooding my brain with memories.
