Wind and Memory

The wind does not howl in rage…

But yearns… Please leave a novel silence in thinking

What is this: a mouthless voice,

An unmusical song,

Fingers of an artist painted white with the cheeks of hills,

When the terrain of memory hides beneath the flesh.

Does it know me as I knew it, or vice versa?

The distance of the hills: then their shade, so stillness in the half UV light:

For even warmth, the shoulder of none enclosed the borderline sky.

Perhaps it does not, like me.

The emphasizing does not center part of the…

At the whisper, when swept past, as dust is dancing in air.

It is like song that I hear,

The voices almost draw upon ancient

I wonder, is this the sound,

Of loneliness?

A constant company,

Forever, to be possessed?

A sight that one Experienced, but not witnessed?

I would have told, but the air that I would use is too hard.

It is a shame because it is heavy with thoughts and how it is carried and placed against some other…

So that I do, pictorial that you seem to leave it out, compiled sounds of the surroundings without any activity.

Constantly.

Recalled and lost.

Deflated and bloated.

With my two kin face to face

I close my lids and for a minute

So am I the air.