She likes the noise of the wind.
Like voices in her head.
The slow moaning of souls that are dead.
She opens her window in the hopes for more.
When life is still she finds a way to run from home.
She forces herself to flow.
To become the things she has called her own.
When the turbulent spirals of nature’s breath collide they call her their dear child.
She welcomes the sounds, she welcomes the screams.
She wonders if her soul will ever become part of the wind.
Signing off, TWS