The Wind Carries My Wailing

We are not meant to live in pain.

Sorrow is not a possession.

Cries in night long sessions of ruminating is a virus.

Easily caught and seldom expelled.

Our movements kicked up winds that carried our wailing.

We tote burdens like a beast in a dance with no music and no lead.

Never to far from tears our eyes burn, our teeth grind, our thoughts slip through with no consideration.

We are islands by mistake and the tide has forgotten us.

If I reached out to another one my hand is rejected and the wind will carry my wailing.

My sorrow has become my luggage and it’s packed with memories of my hand being rejected.

So I set sail, but this wind won’t carry my wailing, but me, to offer another hand.  

To be happy

As the new day breaks over mountains capped and proud, my mind is clear.

The cold air suspense’s my promise and possibilities, evergreens standing in wait for my greetings.

The perfume that drift is familiar as childhood gone by.

The sound is none but my own footfalls as animals watch and I am everywhere.

This world has reveled to me a place where men have come and losted and have come again.

This be my place, a place I see when light is dim and my eyes closed.

Though I am alone I am never lonely.

I have always come here when my thoughts are left to carry forward. This place is as old as I.

My mountainscape cannot escape my internal sight, this is my home, has always been my home.

It calls to me when I am away and go back. It called to me when I was there and I go and see.

I looked out over all I could see and I am happy.

The mountains gives me broad view and life is small and aspects disappear.

To be happy while Earth be new as it reaches for sights concealed.