Literature
The Wind
Imagine if you can, a small house set
on the wind swept plains. Inside, sits a sad
old man, bitter and tired. No family
left to see, no name worth saying today,
no longer living, yet always in pain.
I hear the wind. That harsh whistle that leaves
the heart with a wanting haunting spirit
of past follies. They are echoes that play
a picture show of lost time only found
in my mind. A faded image of youth
before the years began to stack on one
after the other. When did that moment
slip away? A photograph is one pause
on a sea of life, yet never the same
to either eyes. The wind whistles harder
as though an old steam engine is ready
to leave for another station. We move,
we always have to move, even when all
you want is for the world to stop. Perhaps
you can stop, you can freeze, but that is no
life. I stand up and look out through the blinds,
the wind bends the trees and whistles a scream.
No! Begone you phantoms of my sorry
ill gotten life, I made my peace so long
ago! For I
