Breeze Brings

I try to enjoy the wind as it reaches me here in the open window’d car. 
I hear the leaves talk too. 
It brings me you
and the absence settles. 

This brings me only memories and reminders that have impacted me enough, 
to be able to come to me this way.

I try to enjoy it
but I only wish you were here 

and that the breeze was not.

Wind and Life

There’s something about wind: the flow of air that we cannot see but can feel, that riddles my skin to magic.

We see the leaves flutter and hear them.
And it is the unseen.

The same as such in life.

There are events, experiences, moments…essentially Time, that happens in everybodys life.
And the person is a subject of the unseen.
Wind does damage, wind does beauty, just as time does.

There is a force out there that we don’t see and it affects each one of us.

We can be the fluttering strength of a flower who won’t let go of it’s roots or the tree that crashes to the forest floor.

We get to choose how to deal with the wind of our life. 

Lightweight EarthStage

Putting on ballons. To wear them running.
Attatched as well, with lightweight fabric that the wind is going to do nothing but caress.

Soul of lightweight touch too.

Strands of hair dancing in wild with the strands of light.
that filter through the branches of all the trees.

Feather pockets and around neck and tugging fabric at all your skins creases.
The weathers amusement.

The trees brand of entertainment.

Coddling the grass with toes.
Devouring gulps of air that’s falling into darker states.
As the sun sets
lighter than all the shadows.
on the stage of light

Ballooing into a lighter being of adventurous.

 

 

Mind Tumble

Bending moments into garbage bags of warped crinkles. The after of the beginning is the middle of the time where ants run wild in their teeth crunching abilities. Medium is always the rare in a time of easy softness. The lights of cakes whip up their soul in a few minutes and leave a trailing winding upward path of smoke. And we’re supposed to follow it. But our wishes never do. Off the shore the trees lean their way to freedom pieces where chocolate is the least of worries and chips of plastic are the overbearing prize of the individuals that last till the last wind roars.
You’re the bending of the brittle, with the warp and the crinkle in a time of den. When you’re slipping stares and rugged reasons into a solid slot of truth. The type of style air is, is the only thing you don’t know. And it doesn’t matter what you remember, just that you’re the ability of movement. Backwards, forwards, you’re the run of the century. Little crystals of warmth and strength and to hold on to any dab of confidence is what you’ll do to be a moment of a warped crinkled garbage bag.