Wind. (2019)
He gained all his wisdoms, from the wind,
So he said.
As we smoked banisteria, locked in his shed.
I blew out my lungfull, and the gland in my head,
Which deals with such things, left me nourished and fed.
All disappointments, all yearnings and dread,
Were as scattered as ashes on pyres for the dead.
Why they put up with me, can be anyone's guess,
Agony, ecstasy, subtle duress,
From minds sharp as razors,
Chastised as I'm blessed,
My self disappearing, like bats in the night,
My soul cleansed by creatures, with features so bright,
They may be our watchers, the angels of light.
Strange angels alright, who may deal with our health,
Were kindly reminding, look after yourself,
Till your words are transcribed, and your books on the shelf,
Of those you won't meet, but will share in the wealth,
Of this gift which you squander, and keep to yourself.
Did you dream it was yours?
And for nobody else?
In your knowing, they knew it.
And them knowing brought you to it.
Count your blessings, you're born,
In the place that you're in,
Not a slave, or child soldier, 
Condemned not to win.
Then the visions dispersed,
At the pace that they'd come,
And he smashed his shed window, 
To let in the sun.
To let in the sun.
To let in the sun.
He smashed the shed window,
With his grandfather's pellet gun.

Wind .. 2020

Chris The Poet