CONFESSION ZERO

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 Center for Nonviolent Solutions