The Pen and The Wind

Would I make a lover of the breeze?
To take the gentle caress of the zephyrs upon my lips,
And return them with all heart and soul,
Would I do such a thing?

Would I give my love to a Sylph?
The current of air flowing through both her and I,
To stir and fulfill the mind, 
To think in ways not ever seen,
And be inspired to ways unfathomable,
As the electricity between us charges us,
And from the simple touch of lips,
And staring deep into each other eyes,
Do we see the world as so much more,
And find the beauty in everything,
As we see it in each other,
Dare I experience that love like no other?

Would I give my heart to the wind?
I would if she would take it. 

Oh gales that blow right through my mind, 
Carrying song, thought, and rhyme,
Can you express the peace I strive to share, 
And bring it back, so fast and fair? 

Winds that squall and rush,
Bring me serenity so lush? 
I need to show the light in me,
In order to truly feel free. 

Darkness invigorates,
And sun only drains, 
I find myself a nocturnal beast,
A gargoyle lost in thought,
Longing for the companionship of love,
Looking up at the moonlight, 
And waiting for another to see the moonlit wind as I,
But the waiting kills me,
And I find my periods of stony flesh growing longer,
I may be a full statue by the time that someone first glimpses the night’s wind,
And I am deeply fearful of that fate. 

Can you hear the song of still air?
Take a listen, see if you can.

Did you hear it?
A song that weeps for every sorrow,
That cries in the dead of night,
Of every sin and sorrow that had been done,
A song of tears that fall as waterfalls,
A song that radiates from the dark of night, 
That knows the secrets of the skies,
That sings of them to better their lives,
And warn them of the heartaches they could avoid.
It is a terribly sad and mournful song.

And yet so few hear,
And so fewer will to listen.  

What winds does truth reveal,
To what the shallow breezes availed?
The truth may seep from the gaping wound,
Where the Gungnir was impaled.

But blood may shine, like a corrupt diamond mine,
In the shadows underneath the trees,
But one ray of sun may dry up the blood,
When it does pierce through the veil of leaves.  

What is fog but a humble cloud, 
That finds itself stuck on the ground,
No updrafts or winds to return it to the sky,
Just unbearable stillness that chains it down.

 And how did a windborne cloud, 
Find itself stuck on the ground?  
Call it fate, chaos, or luck,
It still has no hope for being found. 

For clouds are free to roam the sky,
Observe all, and find the answers to “why?”,
But dense fog just obscures all sight,
So thick and still you just might die.

Maybe a wind would soon come,
Let the fog once again run,
But until windy patterns do change,
This fog shall be never done.  

A wounded robin stands alone, 
Held aloft by kind, gilded wings, 
A special few that want to see it fly,
But had they had to go on, in order to live,
And while the robin wants them to live on happily,
Its wings are still crippled,
Healing, but unable to fly. 

And now, the robin stands in the plain alone,
And begins to sing,
A song carried by gale and breeze, 
But the plain is too vast,
Songs sink into the grass,
While vultures circle overhead. 

The robin must continue it’s song, 
Heart breaking with every unheard note,
Strength fading fast,
But trying to push out the notes,
For as soon as the song stops,
The vultures will descend.  

http://authspot.com/poetry/the-robin-6/ 

My dear Sylph,
Frequent and graceful dance partner of mine,
I long to hold you in my arms,
And whisper sweet nothings to you,
My deal Sylph who reinvigorates me so,
Clears my mind and inspires me,
I’d give anything for you to blow through my mind,
As I blow through yours,
Trading wits as our storms converge,
Gaining perfect knowledge of each other,
And when the time comes pull me close,
Showing me the passion of a hurricane.

But alas, every time I try and grip your hand,
You slip though my fingers,
With almost a sad zephyr.

If I were to try and write out,
My capacity for loving someone,
The world would suffocate to death,
Under ceaseless pages that I would compose,
Such is the vastness of the heart.

But I do not want you to die my love,
Under the mountains of my proclamations,
So instead I’ll confide in the breeze,
And trust it to deliver all my love to you,
And each time you feel the wind blow in your ear,
It’s just me sending a love note to you.

And each time I feel the wind myself,
I wonder if it’s you,
Sending correspondence.

I love the feeling of the wind in-between my fingers. It is one of the best and most magical feelings in the world, because it feels like the wind is grabbing my hand, and pulling me along, gently curling her fingers around mine. And sometimes when I am alone, I wave my arms and walk with a flourish, the wind begins to swirl and wrap around me, and letting her guide me as I step and turn. The intensity increases, and I loose myself to the sensation of the wind on me, and I let myself embrace this dance, for it makes me feel special, like the wind cares for me in a special way. And when the breeze dies down, I return to my normal walk, continuing my day with an added smile.

I sometimes dance with the wind, and frankly, I love it.

When clouds are stained by luminous ink,
And deprived of gales I cannot think,
You may then find me soon dead,
For on shadows and storms do I tread.

When light begins to fade away,
The deranged and depraved come out to play,
But dragons too Live in the night,
Their power been shunned by light.

And gales that slice through air,
Carry ancient knowledge here and there,
While pebbles, rocks, and earthen clods,
Are cast down for wind to trod.

And that where gale and shadow meet,
Cause lightning to crack at our feet,
But these furious bolts that make us run,
Are deranged dragons having a bit of fun.

Upon shadows and storms I do tread,
I do not live with souls so dead,
But those who are living art,
And carry shadow and bolt in their heart.

Blissful breezes bound about,
On oh so a blustery day,
Though my windy mind should feel at home,
It is far more torrential  and far away,
For the gales that comprise me strayed too far,
And ran into something so sadly familiar.

The wind whispered back to me,
A tale of one I once lost,
How she still remembered me,
But still had no want of me,
Though zephyrs of us may mingle,
Nothing else will ever ever happen.

I could call it the closest thing I have to love,
That girl who is as windswept as I,
That one so fascinated with living and life,
That gales carry her about,
And a soul so beautiful and infinite,
It swallowed me whole like the night sky.

But through many hopeless efforts I have failed,
To win her her heart like she did mine,
But even If I could manage to wring out,
The most miniscule amount of affection for me,
It still would be in vain,
For we would soon again be cast so far apart,
That any hope at all should be lost,
And it seems like such a hopeless pipe dream,
That the girl who walks on the wind could love,
The poet who writes on it.

And as zephyrs beget gales,
And gales beget storms,
That smallest attachment will never die,
And my my windswept soul wilts,
Knowing it won’t know the love it has.