The empty air has a bitter tone
When it bites at my fingers
And yells profanities in an unrecognizable tongue.
It stings when it sings.
It has an aberrant gait
And a detached mien,
This lack-of being.
The tempest’s strides jounce its overly-wide shoulders;
Its prominent brow sends an antagonistic shadow
Cascading down its lip and jaw.
This active silence whispers age-old secrets
Its fingers tousling the amber leaves
Of my autumn’s long-dead trees.
The sound resonates,
And this taunting, all-knowing,
Omnipresent, nonexistent-but-still-there wind
Smiles at my naïveté.
Weary under the weight of the world
And the smog of self-importance.
Its eyes are clouded with grey rain,
Its teeth sharp with a bitter resentment;
“I’ve disliked you since the 1700s,” it breathes,
Throwing an airy, acrid gaze at humanity.
(“I’m sorry, but it is you who made me this way,
With your scornful industrialization.”)
Its eyes are frigid, piercing,
Wicked, yet reserved.
Cruel in their taunting assumptions,
Yet,
In those forget-me-not eyes
I found the sky.