Monday, June 20, 2016

The Wind

My old adversary from when
I was a spindly crippled boy,
Son of a severely crippled 
Father and a devout mother

Who frowned upon the very term
Crippled, preferring handicapped,
Odd gambling term for born-again
Fundamentalists such as them,

The wind is in a rush today,
The wind is in a rush again,
And I know what it has to say
As it buffets me in my den

Of ghastly voiced conversations
With the long-lost souls it's blown in:
Nothing. Oh very clever, boy,
You've been prattling about nothing

As if it were something since, when?
About the time you started this
Deranged skein of solipsistic 
Tergiversations you call poems?

What is nothing to you or you
To them, now nothing's bosom friends
Are the people you remember
A bit but barely, now and then?

Nothing. Inhale it and you win.
Exhale it and begin again.
There is no nothing, just the wind
Spinning beginnings wet with ends.

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