@d-pendIf dialogues of wind
were enough to satisfy the metaphysician—
crumbling into rivulets of flame,
livid with nameless glory.
The static of a silence so profound, it unpuzzles progenies.
Molten with quandration;
feels its way into the beatless core—
there to sit in its nothingness imploded.
Alive, insistent,
my cricket-heart sings stories:
muted
by the doubtful night.
A hearty stem
produces a sickly bloom.
So soon,
summer;
my tearful mirage.
The beauty of contours
and waiting
for the wind to answer.
@d-pend