The old fool whispers:
“The wind always lies”
His mouth frothing with spit,
Tongue attracting flies.
He pranced around,
As if in a play,
Arms growing towards the ground,
He groped his *****, mottled dress shirt,
Lifting it up to show,
His smirk suggesting a flirt.
In his cloudy gray mind,
He was in an oasis,
Looking on intricate desert, talking to the wind.
The wind,
Wild thief of old,
Wanted to steal the man’s heart of gold,
He wore many faces,
The dancer-prancer, the merchant, the *****.
He danced with the old man,
Tying his brain with laces,
The old man was twirling,
Humming a tune,
Laughing as into the water he went.
                                                           ­    -**Firefly