Surge of thoughts and ideas and masterpieces come rushing in
Like a late train catching up on lost time.
Hear the blowing of air around each point made
Each phrase followed by the sound of light
A quiet noise-
All hurled at lips that have no speed to taste them.
They sit stuck on her lips.
She has lots to say.
With the mess of words on her mouth, she smears it on her hands, hoping not to lose a vowel
More and more is thrown at her, louder and louder the word wind howls-
Softer and quieter she becomes
As no word comforts her scream.
The miniature toy plane, stares
Mesmerized by the sun shining through an open crack of a window.
The light of the sun dances there- where the wind likes to sit and watch.
The stress of surged words and
Newspaper clippings of tomorrow’s journey blown onto my radar has no bearing on my flight.
I fly attached to a short string
My view rotating all the while.
But tomorrow, I fly the Wind.
My widow of words,
In the Wind.