It's Still Life

I.
A Micro-narrative

I was raised with a horror
of talking about myself.
Raised with my mother’s
obsession for organisation,
and so I’d never admit
that I had no plan, that I’d
invented myself, start to end.

And secretly I wanted to try
everything: given a chance
I’d surf a coursing mudslide
because I knew I’d always fall
into dumb luck. But ride it
or not, I kept up my guard,
some secret army that drew
me into some very dark places.

Everyone’s story has dark places,
and if dumb luck follows you,
perhaps you’ll find liberation,
find a measure of yourself.
A larger truth waiting out there.
Someone said labels are best
suited to jam jars. Perhaps,

but I’ve soaked a lot of labels
off empty jars in my time.

II.
This Wind Is Destruction

spreading wide beyond
us all. Tumbling across
the emptiness of sky,
and flying from where
it’s born. It blows gentle,
cool and clear until
it fades, and dies. Revived,
it wanders, and steals
the fragrances of herbs.
Stricken by this wind,
breathing fever on us all,
give us your murmured cure.

This wind. This menace.
Its song, an unbeat drum.

Poetic Asides Day 5: Self-Destructive