Whispering Prate




Like psithurism,


Embued with the essence of me,


Wading the darkside's rivers whistling a tune,


Wishing and hoping for some 


Small twinge of logic


To seep through these long branches.






Through winter storms 


And hot, blistering summer droughts,


And yet, 


Just like a willow,




You have learned the dance,


Even when the dance tried to swallow you.


And I promise this time


I will try harder not to step on toes,


Or barrell down false pride


Without leaving cover or batting down hatches.




Because I learned that when the wind


Hits the trees,


There is only one sound it can make


To ears that cannot hear,


Ears that refuse to listen,


To the words.







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KingofWords's picture


I loved it especially the last stanza. :)

nightlight1220's picture

Yes, Ziaul, thank you. The

Yes, Ziaul, thank you. The wind speaks to the trees much the same way god speaks to each of his children. Personal, private, to each their own understanding.Glad you liked. 


...and he asked her, "do you write poetry? Because I feel as if I am the ink that flows from your quill."

"No", she replied, "but I have experienced it. "