When the Wind Dies
by Steven Craig
There are other thoughts
other stories
other prose
other weavings of shadows and fire
many are never told
like olde mansions in the city
that do not give up their tales
cold red walls that mortar grips
long ivy coils that cover the scars
surrounded by miniature forests
in scaped steps desired
stories that when known from the inside
make one feel cold
curious
watchful
wondering.
Long, long roads frequent the plain
where the tears have slowly washed the stains
not from the ground
but from the traveled souls
whose moment is in need
caring and empty
loving and encased
hollowed out in preparation
but never filled enough to quench.
Standing, walking, running there
breathing the airs of fortune
wondering where the worlds edge is
when seen from space so round and curved
but from the planted feet
shod in leather and nails
it is a shadowed question
drifting
on the eyes solitary horizon.
Nothing holds the wind
the clouds do try
but are torn to gaping holes
to swirl in their remote towers
and rain torrents for a moments relent
not that the wind could ever be held
not that the chain was ever fashioned that would
but a canyon wall
deep and narrow
watered by its passing
is known as the place where the wind
goes to die.
Dreams and desires are so like the wind
blowing in sudden gusts after years of quiet remote
Needs are on that wind
blown quickly out of reach
not to ever be recovered
not to ever be held but that once
Intense is that wind when it slices that one nerve
the one that sears the memory with a seamless wall
built brick by brick
held by ivy lace
dark and forgotten too soon
the lust of a moments love.
12/30/2011
