poetry & things

This wind

There is a holiness in the wind

these wisps of diaphanous clouds that fly

always I smile in the gentlest of winds that kiss

oh, but I do not like the harshness of winds that whip

how they come to blow the hollow of darkness

toward the light again, things buried underground

places – like death, the stabbing pains

I’ve met, awakened while

seeing and feeling.

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