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The winds blow, carrying spice and sand and death from the desert, water from the forests, ice from the mountains, fire from the lands of
fire, air from everywhere, and from itself. Stand one day in a high place,
Witt the wind all about you, and none else there but you, and if you listen, you may here secrets whispered to you, on the breath of the wind,
secrets many, and yours among them, for the wind knows all things, and it sees all, forgets nothing.
I love the feeling of wind in my hair, with the smell of rain all about me.
In summer,
I used to run, and
curse the heat. And swim
in the cool waters of the pond.
No more.
For the colder months are coming in,
and winters knocking on the door,
with summer shuffling out the
back. And I welcome old
winter in.
The cold is coming, only wait, and it will find us.
In a city, future past, and the
streets are cold and clean and flat.
Naught living, none dying, a ghost town, way down the way.
Except.
Except for a lone *** of clay, sitting on the sill, of a cold and sterile building, way up high. And there lies growing a small plant, glowing green and red in the morning sun. Growing, growing,
growing still.
Just a thought rattling in my head begging to come out.
I sometimes dream, when I am on the cusp
of waking, and sleeps warm embrace has
loosened, that I stand upon a cliff, overlooking
the vastness of the sea, and behind me is a plain,
stretching to forever, and above me the gulls wheel
in patterns and intricacies I had never before imagined,
and they call to me secrets gleaned from the wind, and the
clouds, and from the waves below. They tell me tales
and legends, and they speak of the lives of the fishes, and
the voices of the whales, and of the meanings in the skies.
And when I wake, and I am daunted by the troubles of the
day, I remember and am comforted, and journey through days
struggles, on the promise of a soft tonight, and of the calls of
the gulls, and the music of the sea.
I sometimes feel more awake and more alive in dreams than I do in waking.
Words, sharp as knives in a skillful hand,
turn soft as a child's quilt, when spoken in tones of love.
Words, the expressions of ourselves, the strings that link us, bind
us, hold us, change us. Words, thought incarnate.
And yet, at times they fall short, inadequate to capture the
glory of the moment, or the horror.
This a sorrow, and a comfort,
Twofold as words may be.
Reflections.
 Sep 2015 Keva Minus
Olivia Kent
She kept a vigil by the bedside.
Watching him sleeping.
In silence she sits.
Save for the beeps and bops of forced whistling air.
She adored all of him still.
He was just hanging in there.

She perched on a swinging rocking chair.
Spoke to him now and again, poor thing.
She sang to him as he battled.
Fought with the deepest side of the sandman.
She touched his hand once again.

The room lit up with lights of gold.
Rolling rainbows.
There he goes.
Go forth into the light good sir.
Permission given.
Now it's time to be bold.
At the foot of his slumber spot.
An angel dressed not in white, but royal blue came to collect him.
She played a serenade to him upon a silvery horn.
She dwindled in the atmosphere.
Amidst the flurry of whizzing trolleys.

The doors flew open.
A team of magic folks, not fairies, stole his heart and gave it to another.
Liver and kidneys not far behind.
His woman cried and sighed.
Kisses him softly, bids him goodbye.
He didn't respond, he no longer could.
Passed quietly over, did her lost lover.
All donations gratefully received.
She took it much better than friends had perceived.
She rolled her wedding ring.
Walked out sad but proud.
As raindrops and sunshine fell from the cloud.
Up came the rainbow, silently loud.
(c)Livvi
 Sep 2015 Keva Minus
Olivia Kent
Left the stage.
Exited stage left.
Her swan song lifted spirits.
Perfect performance.
Drama filled.
Last breath then she was gone.

Her bolstered tutu puffed up proudly.
Released her wings.
Trumpeters played, then she was gone.
One last gasp, she was done.
To her audience a revelation.
The flowers they threw fell in stems.
Time and time again.
An apparition that still remains.
Daily the stems of falling flowers lay.
When bought forth the janitor comes to clean.
The flowers have gone if you know what I mean.
Another supernatural scene.

Her name headlined all the papers.
Was front page news.
Now just the ballerina who passed on the stage.
Not even a paragraph given.
The headlines for the tabloid's now, are only for the living.
(c) Livvi
 Sep 2015 Keva Minus
Olivia Kent
Strands of ridged ribbons,
Neat bows on nightcaps.
Slippers on floor placed neatly at bedside.
Bed socks and nightgowns,
Laced up to the collar.
The man says we're in for a chill this winter.

Covers pulled tight up round their neck.
Bed lost it's *** appeal.
So cold.
Still trying to feel.
(c) Livvi
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