It’s the Way of Bruised Flowers
Between dreams and death’s sleep,
between winter’s rustling reeds,
I heard the hollow sound of hunger.
I fought the urge to shout
at bearded madness,
or hissing vespers and endlessly
confess to boundless wind.
Memory is sand. Stormy. Fleeting.
It’s the scent of damp iron.
Lonely as wind. I know that wind.
But I’d be remiss for not admitting
that I follow other people’s paths,
and then protest and bleat silently.
This week’s words: boundless, sound, wind, follow, miss, madness, sand, shout, memory,
power, hunger, urge. Written for Sunday Whirl #339
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