Standing on the edge of another dream
I was blown away by the stream of a new wind
My hair was not moving nor was there
rustling of the leaves on the trees or debris in the breeze
Or the call of birds of whatever
it is that they want to be heard by others
The air was so clear, as if not even there
and the light of the day sunk beyond the horizon
There was nothing to hear neither near or far
all that there was, was not to be heard but by heart
The sound of wind moving against wind, in the dark
the rushing could not be seen, nor was it heard, but by my heart
The rushing of only wind against wind squeals
strokes of magnificence which slice through the dark
Where nary a blade of grass so much leans
not to be seen, and never to be heard dancing with another
Just the silence of the wind alone, rushing and forging
through the cold of the dark, solaced night
To make me wonder if this fantasy could be worth its wait
in golden pearls or will it simply eclipse the raven's call?
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