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angel dust Jan 5
my breath?
ragged
tainted
untamed
uneven

billowing gusts of air

how
can it
even escape my lungs
when my
heart
jackhammers so
mercilessly?

i’m filled with nothing but
curiosity
and
intrigue

i want to be filled with nothing but
you

i want
your lips
your hair
your hands
your arms

i want
time
to explore
the
inches of your ******
surface

i want to make you feel
a way
you have never
felt
before
TS Nov 2019
The wind plays a symphony that only the silent can hear.
Close your eyes, put your mind at peace, and open you heart to the sound.
Let the breeze fill your lungs and lift you higher.
Hear the rustle of the leaves high above and the gusts whistling a tune.
Windchimes add percussion while the hum of the earth beneath your feet casts a steady beating of your heart.
Breathe in, breathe out becomes the harmony.
And the wind roars the melody.
You are the conductor, the one in control.
You guide the song through its journey and take a victorious bow.
And when you stand and look out again and wonder why it has to go,
Remember that there will always been another symphony storm



-t.s.
TS Nov 2019
My moods are like the wind. Contains the same elements but expressed in different ways.

Starry sky, crickets chirp, wind skips lightly across your skin
I whisper,
Peace.

Sun beams pierce the windshield, my hair floats recklessly from the open window, music playing,
I sing,
Carefree.

A light drizzle with a light rustle in the trees, grey sky, puddles under foot
I mutter,
Lonely.

Sharp, cold air scratched against your face, snow like glass, shiver in my bones,
I bellow,
Anger.

Chaotic gusts like trains rushing by, thunder crashes, the sky groans in angst
I cry,
Pain.

The breeze softens and floats with the rain, eerie stillness, the world is quiet once more,
I gasp,
Exhausted.

My moods are like the wind. Ever changing, ever growing, and forever calling your name.




-t.s.
eleanor prince Feb 2017
a short reprieve
as time would tell
but for that moment
as winter yielded to rest
Ballaarat had turned on a day

no more did grey rain
slice savagely side-wards
shot from Antarctica's ice-fields
separating ribs from shivering flesh
leaving futile dreams of an early spring

this day was good
leaves barely rustled
occasional gusts stirred
caught in silent murmurings
as bulbs reached up with impish smile
this old gold-rush town in mid-Victoria, Australia, is built on a windy plateau, and though gracious in its traditional beauty, is known for relentless winds most of the year... a fine day is celebrated!

— The End —