Sunday, 9 January 2011

The Whistly Screech

The wind wants to tell me a story, aye
of it in its passing glory, sigh
temporary, its whistling tales belie
in outbursts that scream on exhale, seemingly deprived
confined with in it are voices infinite
trailing on by with their vices to pick on fights
untold stories, unheard they pass on by
another passage of time to capture
other alleys to invade and enrapture
The wind wants to tell me a story alright
The whistling I hear as it passes on by
The shrill that shrieks its unpleasant cries
It grates and pierces, all silence it defies
Yet eerily in a paradox its own silence signifies
An omen pending, soon to be un-pried
And in its wake leaves restlessness undefined
The wind it wants to tell a story, I wonder why
In its whistling sound when it passes by and by...

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