Litkicks Message Board Archive

the wind

Posted to Action Poetry




is blunt.
it moves,
shakes the leaves from trees,
shrieks high and hard
on chilly nights.

what moves with grace
can wretch you from your sheets
and smother you in cold sweat.

to question
without offering an answer
will run in circles,
seemingly endless.

if you can question,
you can solidify your claim.

"why do I feel lonely?"
because the moon
turns her face from me,
because my bed is cold
and i never seem to say the right things.

you can sate an inquistition,
and even if you aren't sure
the paper knows not.