It’s so soothing watching the dark shadows of these gums dancing above me, pitched against the grey of this cloudy night. Communities of leaves precariously suspended on their little scrawny twig limb branches. Every time the winds pick up, all my senses alight. He is omnipresent, force incarnate, this wind. He is all consuming, all knowing, forefather of times of old, this wind. He is enveloping us all simultaneous, symbiotic; the leaves, the rock, the wind and I. The birds in their hollows, the ants on their scent trails, the spiders in their webs. We’re all dancing in unison on the rhythm of this wind. And it’s a force in me, that is a wild in me. That is a known mystery in me. Etched in the bones of my ancestors and in the celestial ashes of my unborn children. It is a mystery in me that does not sleep. It’s where the weeping resides.. the screams and the bellows, the ecstatic moans and gasps and giggles and sighs. The animal sounds of this; the wild wind unsheathed.
She takes off all of her prison clothes and stands naked on the cliffside, saluting the night with the grief of a sense body awoken. From a deepened slumber, where all of her brothers and sisters still lay; idle and restless in the grottos of suburbia. Tossing and turning in their longing for the wild wind.
And to my beloved I give to him only my ugliness now. The protector of my grief in all her wretched tattered rags and gnarled metal weaponry, rusted and eroded from centuries of battle. I give to him only my ugliness now, his eyes blind to my light. For as far as the tales that I’ve been told in my time, they’ve all ended in engulfed in flame ferocious. What more perfect a way to push love away? Ahhh and here she proclaims.. as the line rings out to silence.. But silence does not wholly exist here in this living world. With the crickets and the breezes and the rustles and the low hums of distant roads. Little exoskeleton vehicles holding lives unknown. In this stillness here, where she feels love to have turned away already, too many times already, again and again. An outward spell, she casts in the direction of a great infinite of unknowns.
And all time will pass, just all things will pass and everything must converge. So while she, in her fury, thrashes about in retaliation, in the foyer of her fevers.. Her fevers, of pierced anguish sunken old and deep in the bossom of her home. A sore loser. Putrid stench of loved lost in chains. Something still remains.. low down in the soil, stirring.. unfurling. Waiting to be born