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,