The Stillness Becomes Too Much
I press flowers and leaves in between my only book.
For what can I do until the dusky night
and the symbols of another voice
speckle the sky?
I flip through the yellowed pages,
pausing at the bud my dear sparrow brought me
years ago when I first arrived at this wretched tower.
I’m not alone, I’m not alone,
I whisper to the silence.
The Song of the Wind
On storming days, when the sway of the wind shakes my prison,
I lay flat on my back and try to breathe.
Counting the flecks of white on the stonewall,
I wait until the swell of the gale hurls away to the next town.
Has the Autumn King had his fun?
Slowly, I’ll sit up and gaze outside my window,
taking in the naked trees and the gilded leaves
littering the ground like thin pieces of gold.
I want to shout at the wind to come back,
to take me away,
but it has already left.
Happy poetry writing, friends 🙂 !