Many moments, I was possessed only by the wind.
In the insomniac hours, I heard it call my name.
The eerie determination of its voice was masqueraded as my own.
However, I could not claim the strength to move towards what gave me will to stand on unclear days.
And so. I existed, with my dirty wings that I frequently tricked predators with.
The color of myself, fooled me to believe there was life in them; not just survival.
Though I was floundering, though they gave on me many times.
I was life, because I wore its aroma.
But when I was quenched the ripples in the water showed me my hair, and so I cowardly migrated off again.
The wind and it's fragile voice whirled around me in a lovely staccato fading away with its final "goodbye"
Giving me nothing, but a memory of my own sorrow.
It was gone, though it was me.
Then I awoke, and nothing changed.
I am not a gregarious creature, reciprocating warmth with friendships.
I may be a mongrel to some, but I don't drag my tail between my legs to appease.
So, when I perched myself up upon a fragile branch with the hopes it wouldn't withhold me, and that I wouldn't instinctively save myself, I felt for once myself and all that I'd ignored.
The silhouette of my shape, bleak as it seemed was friends with the light.
Then I laughed at the obsessions, the hatred, the instincts I've adopted from the comedy that is life.
