The wind whispers a tune to describe the feelings of yesterday,
and it carries them to tomorrow.
How can words be so clear in a darkened night
and my senses go so astray to make me think I knew?
When all my bones crack and disassemble,
they will return here to the aftermath and the beginning
to tell a new story, and I haven't heard it yet.
But I will. I will know the howling cries that call for me
as if I were worthy to be part of it all.
I will laugh when I am torn apart and tell the joke
like I invented it, dust-covered and ancient.
Tell me how I can be pieced together in a new form.
Give me an elevated place and allow me to witness it,
scrambled but passionate, hollow and faceless,
an author of something I can not yet explain,
but as years follow me so will the words, and I will.
Hi, everyone. I haven't posted here in quite some time. But I wrote this poem about death and the meaning of life, how this journey seems meaningless, and yet knowing that I, like others, will never have any true answers until I am dead (and even then, maybe not).