socall me wren

There are these words.  These words that come out from my head to rest on the air I breathe.  But I don’t know what they mean.  Mostly, they just stay in my head.  These words are afraid of freedom.  They roost inside, laying their eggs of stagnation.  The tired bags that lie beneath my eyes tell tale of the spoiled ova, forgetting the freshness of crisp air to float away on.  Long flaxen locks hide the redness of my hardened lips that remain closed.  What now to see my sunshine through this windowpane.  A mere glass broken pain whose wings are ready for flight.  Rest my cup beside me, fill it with the ocean.  This pungeunt air inside my head will gather its salted dew.

The rain again. Shots of light aimed at my face, licking the air I breathe. The hair in my nose curls from the ozone so defiantly close. That light lashes out again, barely grazing my cheek. a scar.

the thunder comes, holding my head to the ground. punishment. the rain my tears, humming against the building surrounding me. Lightning teases, fancy in the sky as that thunder puts his knee to my cheek. The hair from my head flows out, reaching for the soil so close by. I can feel the roses, bowing to touch my head. Thunder rages, rain … melting me more into the hard ground. A careless wind blows the drops across my face, moving the storm further on. Thunder releases his stranglehold but kicks my feet as he leaves. laying in my puddle the rain is all that is left. Androgynous. cleansing what torment just came over that storm. the timbre on the metal, the resonance of the drops falling so near my face. My trance. A curious mind to follow the storm away, west.