As if it is better to be still
and silenced by everything louder than myself,
As if fear was a wounded lion,
frightening but weak enough to escape from,
I took the first road that opened its concrete brush to me
and I ran like the fucking wind.
And I was, ever more, like the wind.
I could be seen only by what I destroy and manipulate, not as a stand alone figure.
And it was painful for a while, but I learned to live in that silent space
so long that when She fell like rain into my life, I imagined the rain, too only visible by
what dry patches it darkened.
But one day it won’t be that way because
I’ll be able to hold a jar up to the thin air and I’ll know with certainty
that I’ve caught the wind.
The news says the world will end next week;
the news is like a wounded lion.