lash me by your wind

Convergence Of The Four Winds by Michelle Vyn

be the wind of lost thought
seeking redemption of ideas

that burn

inside the hollow eyes,

have you ever thought of that pink scarf,
bleached, tattered, zooming through the sky
like a fake smile on your lips?

have you ever heeded the power of a blow
of air on the birthday candles, how it
erases the years lived?

be the wind that you can’t be,
be a smelly fart if need be,
be an ode to nature, or
a quatrain that seeks nothing.

do you know of the neck
that was adorned atop the light
house, where I stood, the wind:
my body, my sheath, my life,

and how it felt to be suspended
with nothing else to spare
but for a breath of air,
hair ruffled,
silences bespoken;

do you know that neck
belonged to me?

I died that second,
and I have been dying
thenceforth.

I am the wind, I am
the power,

and I am invariably caught
in this struggle.

.

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Linking it up with Poets United Midweek Motif.

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backup now, the blue screen of death

eyes clad with kohl, a kid
walks, every step downloaded
with a faint trace of innocence,
a cache of life, wonder and
bright colors.

/a stack of thoughts, a queue of memories
looping in an array of careless composure/

I read about the hacking away of life
of a kid, of the school where I spent
almost years of five, in an emulation
of deeds, as the school bus met with
an accident, tender hands clutching
wane seats, as we did back in the day,
when the driver took a reckless turn,
as if communicating in bauds: a wish
or an anguish, a sign but of a nybble.

/clusters on a disk are we, bugs winding down,
a chip of a life booting characters, low bandwidth/

.

*Using a bit of computer jargon…

When I’m just a passerby

his head bleeds rivulets of flowers

on the street with few passerby

but there is still naught, not

a worrier, we are all sons of this soil

which has imbued in us the shield

of defense against pain, poverty,

wound and death, we are all idols

of this soil with our open eyes

that see but never could comprehend.

.

we are solemn in our expressions

but only if it could turn into actions

that we have long forgot the story of,

there is pain in every glance, and

that is all there is to it, our hands

clutching our breasts as we pass by,

our eyes squinted with the soil kernels

touched by his blood, fainted of life,

(of alcohol may be) and of lifeless visions.

.

his toes are half hidden beneath a car

(is he just asleep, my eyes ask me,

I have no answer, I pass by: a passerby)

a turbaned man sees through his shield

while speaking on his phone, the lips

next to me tell of the blood I failed

to see or sniff and him being passed out

by alcoholism, those lips wonder if he’d die,

may be he would, we’re all dead, when alive.

.

There is a story to it. May be it is not worth discussion because “what it is” is “what it is”. Words yield power but they do not change things/situations always for that man or for me and for the other passerby.

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