A poem #82 – Where is that wind?

Many days of the year it rains,
each day thereafter, the same, the same, the same.
Dark clouds looming, glooming overhead,
all thoughts consuming, all the while, wishing only to leave my bed.
All that’s right feels wrong:
nails on a chalk board; the most dreadful song.
Hands ever turning around the face of the clock,
the beat of a heart, the measure of time, wishing it would stop.
Where is that wind that blows,
that moves the sun across the skies,
that clears away the shadows
like cobwebs from my mind?

JP Collins

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s