What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman...
As I peer out through the crystal panes,
As the wind whistles, bellows, howling,
a throaty tone usually reserved as it traverses the sea on a stormy day.
A blur of frenzied motion,
dried out refuges leap from their perch,
sinking and circling,
and then rising again like a long forgotten puppet on a string,
rediscovered by its ecstatic young owner.
Ascending,
Engaging
in a ritualistic, tribal dance.
Flaunting their strength,
Jockeying for prime position,
a position changing by the second
with the whim of the breeze.
Just as the victor reaches its zenith, prepared to be crowned,
the breath of Zephyrus is released with a sigh,
Reinforcements rolling in onto the battlefield
leaping into the fray,
destroying the rhythm of the dance,
creating.
Joining together now, competing, thrusting, repelling,
realizing their time
at the top is transitory,
they strive to make it memorable.
So at least they’ll be remembered.
Chaos, passion, disruption-
yields a beauty in its own right.
Order through chaos. Beauty by means of destruction.
Then, as soon as it started,
now the climax passes, Ending
without notice, without a hint of decline
not with a whimper, but with a bang.
The spark, the divine ignition that gave fire
to their flight
is extinguished,
and all that’s left is a cruel joke, a sham, a mockery
of the greatness that once was.
Lifeless husks, laying,
awaiting decay.
Nothing to anyone,
No one to remember, to recall their past glories.
Not even us.
As the wind whistles, bellows, howling,
a throaty tone usually reserved as it traverses the sea on a stormy day.
A blur of frenzied motion,
dried out refuges leap from their perch,
sinking and circling,
and then rising again like a long forgotten puppet on a string,
rediscovered by its ecstatic young owner.
Ascending,
Engaging
in a ritualistic, tribal dance.
Flaunting their strength,
Jockeying for prime position,
a position changing by the second
with the whim of the breeze.
Just as the victor reaches its zenith, prepared to be crowned,
the breath of Zephyrus is released with a sigh,
Reinforcements rolling in onto the battlefield
leaping into the fray,
destroying the rhythm of the dance,
creating.
Joining together now, competing, thrusting, repelling,
realizing their time
at the top is transitory,
they strive to make it memorable.
So at least they’ll be remembered.
Chaos, passion, disruption-
yields a beauty in its own right.
Order through chaos. Beauty by means of destruction.
Then, as soon as it started,
now the climax passes, Ending
without notice, without a hint of decline
not with a whimper, but with a bang.
The spark, the divine ignition that gave fire
to their flight
is extinguished,
and all that’s left is a cruel joke, a sham, a mockery
of the greatness that once was.
Lifeless husks, laying,
awaiting decay.
Nothing to anyone,
No one to remember, to recall their past glories.
Not even us.