foolish talk

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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