the wind is drunk on its liquor

a subtle slurring

lilies stir on the lilt of its voice

as harsh a requitement
again, I find no respite

as lithe as the life
in those ever-rearing gold rows of wheat

mistral born, on the rise
like prying eyes

I am thrown
into some tumult,
where some enemy rages on
shakes his staff against the cold

where the lighter chaff is tossed
toward the salt that laps the sand
on the sweet breath of its benthos

I am withering
but the wind blows on

whiles along –
drones its tepid mourning song
springs the dew
from its calloused palms

I am thrown
as sure of war
as trees will shed and flourish
and shed and flourish
in seasons to and fro'
freshly disowned
by the earth and its shoulder

a carapace of autumn's
exhumed again

a blip
on a blight
on a mote
on a microbe
a sea of stardust
black silk
and white rope

hung
above her head
passing, people start to pour in
and limbs hang like they're dead
tingle with their poor sin

a bead
on a brow
on a cry
quiet mystery
a blip
on a blight
on a brick
in the wall

phase
the night, the numbs a haze
the sounds, the stars that scattered
how far she'd had the ache
how slight, the rings of saturn

a haste
on a heart
to calm it down
a push, a pull
to soak it in
the art around

so small, then
regret sets in
the song in the room
and the ghost let in
long that one would leave it soon

a pulse,
a parse
and a hubric hope
tense,
tingling, the sinking *****
sinks into
the stars around

You stir through the room,
as if breathing was subconscious.
Your breath never wavers.

I'm acquainted with my breathing,
It's almost never instinctive.
It flickers.

Realistically,
we breathe the same air,
But yours is nimble.
And mine is undexterous.

My air is stagnant,
Breaths are fatiguing.
Lackluster.

You seem to rest on water,
Your movments are graceful.
Ethereal.

I struggle to breathe,
but our realities are different.
You'd never notice,
That I'm drowning.