the wind buffets my windows
great gusts gushing to greater heights
they keep me in my home by keeping me out of their home
but i'm fine with that
so i sit, cozy, wrapped in a blanket,
listening to the wind buffeting my windows
Wind
More by ender
-
face
my face is a cage
and the doves inside are suffocating
in a pile of their own shit
my arms are broken wings
and their featherless forms are useless
-
house
in the mud,
in the dirt,
in the silt,
in the pores of the earth,
with the worms,
the moles,
the bugs,
-
life, probably
what is the meaning of it all, anywho?
is it part of some grand scheme, some astral plot
to make us whole again
some day far from now?
perhaps, on the contrary, there is nothing;
are we born simply to exist?
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