The wind does not call with brevity,
But with howls of anguish.
Perhaps it isn’t the wind which speaks,
But a sound that is carried.
Whose agony have we heard?
As the wind itself is quite quiescent,
It doesn’t scream of its own pain;
The pain of the wind is kept hidden.
The whispers of the breeze are laconic,
Short bursts of a whistle throughout the leaves.
This rush is simple, concise,
Lacking convoluted detail.
And what of this sound to be carried?
Does this horror cause the wind such misery?
Only when there is peace will the wind become reticent.
The quiet wind is a pleasured one,
Where loneliness is happiness.
YOU ARE READING
Wind
Poetrylanguage arts do now. using vocab words, and i use them so awkwardly, i bet you can figure out which ones are the words. comment if you get it. and i heard that if i compliment my readers then i will get more fans, so read it, sexy.
