Oh my friend,
The dearest of the lot,
Do you remember the wind?
The way it made us smile,
With catastrophic intentions.
The way it caressed our ways,
And made us forget,
The sweat and the blood stains.
Nature’s organic rebel at work,
Whispering thoughts into people’s heads,
Providing them with a very convincing illusion,
Of being in control.
Reproducing an entire fantasy,
In their innocent perception,
Of life,
And other realms far far away.
Making them feel,
As if their ongoing visual experience,
Was created just for them.
The truth is concealed in plain sight,
Like dirt on human skin.
The struggle to accept a remix,
When you’ve practically lived the original,
Is essentially the reason why the wind
has its own tune, beat and rhythm.
It is theoretically an original,
But undergoes a constant remix,
Of speed, direction and destination.
Letting that slide,
As we dwell closer to the inside,
Of my experience of friendship,
And my perception,
Of yours;
An absurd thought arises,
Tall as a mountain, Strange as a cat,
Can you ever think of the wind as your friend?
Can you process and accept,
Such intimacies with nature?
If you can, whoever you are, come let’s talk!
For we are not normal ‘stock’.
You see, I don’t forget that easy.
My memories are concrete.
Like a slowly darkening evening,
Similar to a hissing car or a flying fish,
Crusading and cruising through the tailored ocean.
Of water and traffic, ‘un-respectively’.
However, the night will gradually arrive.
Spreading yawns and fake goodbyes.
As darkness begins to engulf
All that is around,
And everything that is above and far beyond.
But the light shall return,
Brighter with each passing day.
Just like my memories, of you.
THE END
Written in memory of an unknown poet.
Illustration by P Suma
Article 19 