may we have some nicer weather please? At least some sunnier days than these! It's been so cold and unbelievably wet, it's horrid enough to get upset. It's a bit like April but in reverse, instead of better it's getting worse. Can't make any plans to go outside for a short walk or bicycle ride. Whenever I get ready to leave the house, heaven looks like I'm in for a douse. Sometimes I go out in spite and realize I'm not watertight. Then I get drenched to the bone, it even destroys my mobile phone. Worse yet after it's been warm, the sky rips open a nasty thunderstorm. That's the part when danger lurks with thunder lightning and the works. Because holding up an umbrella can sometimes torch a poor fella. But wait, before I get into hail, earthly tempests like heavy gale, tornados, hurricanes and the likes. It's definitely not worth it, yikes! Instead of giving myself a permanent frown, I put the kettle on and try piping down.
Words are wind is a thing you used to love to say when I would start "defending" him "Words are wind, Mandi! Anyone can give you words!" You would leave the air silent only then with your own. The space between us entirely empty of you. This was not the vacuum of last spring. There would be no side of highway hand plucked wildflowers. No phones vibrating with your messages between thighs in sessions. No intertwined sweat soaked limbs in the sauna of a midday tent. I was thankful of it. I longed for your nearness but not your misplaced romance or hope. No -I would have you now in the Autumn. Too depressed to breathe; you would never draw me close. Your words only came with alcohol, ***, or some combination of supposed truth serums. As you had said though: "Words are wind, Mandi!" And your words somehow both too abundant and too few blew through that space between us like a winter's Gale. Seeking shelter from the elements you created meant leaving you to find your own way through. The only way out for either of us.
It is nearly spring again now. I know it must be because I can see primrose defying all logic with it's near invisible courage. I champion it on with its welcomed heralding of a needed new season.
O' marshes! Swallow up the gale Which farthest I could hear, Ne'er I belong such privilege By myrtle over there. Recollecting where the pod To whom I left behind, The continent, The humble swamps, Surpassing us again.
A gale tramples over fallen doors, And desperate faces cling to a quivering flame, yet No wall can reach their shadows.
I stand there shuddering with each lash from the ice beyond the hearth, A slow trickle from its toil dyeing the rubble at our feet. But still No heads turns to face the dark.
I only know every spark withers and dies as it drifts from our circle, though the brightest voyage furthest into the night. Looking beyond I am neither trapped nor free, but destitue It is not resolve, courage, or despair that now turn me; I am lulled and must wake.
All thoughts deceive. Thoughts of men inspired, of gods deranged, echo in me, And which is worse I do not know.
So tonight I will follow the sparks into gale, Let the lash scour my ears of every voice, And hope no man foolish enough to follow.