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The Wind (the 31st VIOLENT VERSE of October, 2010)


The wind, the wind, the wind; a bugle for the hours of our darkness puffing the moon to radiant madness like bloodshed leaking upon the soil.

We detect the method in our folly, but douse truth like a candle flame. We rigidly seek out bereavement to the tempest’s howling shame.

The wind, the wind, the wind weeping a blanket for such coldness, a mantle for our threadbare shoulders, its agony holding in our disgrace.

Costumes litter our doorways year round; masks of suffering to cover the mourning in our eyes, as phantoms to fold over our speech.

The wind, the wind, the wind; the sign language of exactness blowing from hand to fist, from our breath to bereavement.


© 2010 by mark prime


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