I can feel the fiery breeze envelop me into a sense of uplifting freedom.
It surrounds me with a jagged veil, protruding though my skin.
Sharply twisting deeper, it spins crimson with blood.
I fall.
I fall anxiously,
Throbbing with a bruise to my soul.
the gale spits flickers of consiousness into oblivion.
Crackling as if a squashed plastic cup,
the soul disapparates until it is but a fog of memories.

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9inety's picture

I am

compelled to comment here, there are undeniably things that distinguish you from other poets writing at this time...
their is
a sence of personification.
A sence of personification that equals that of Mary Oliver, who is known for a familar tone that borrows images from all over the world for such as poems as the House of Light and Winter Hours:
do you concur?

"One of the best results of life, is the torment of love"

Dylan Eliot

Spinoza's picture


“the gale spits flickers of consciousness into oblivion” - this particular line, has it's own illumination.