The day I shouted at the wind
I flew – my voice – away
and air contorted with the sound
of breath in desperate play.
I didn’t hear it echo round
where congregations pray;
perhaps it will return, rebound,
on judgment day.
A syllable or two,
a vowel,
a consonant or two,
a howl;
a new expression as a ring
into the void, no-thing.
interesting stuff
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