again you are walking through the streets
of dark and dusky london
shuffling feet trying to escape
the birds that gather in the corners,
the alleyways.
how strange it is (you think) to know
the slightest breath of wind could
dislodge
and send scattering
the letters of your name,
the story of your life,
your hope,
your fear,
this origami of yourself which is constantly folded and unfolded,
worn at the edges,
oily
with the sweat of your palms.
what is there to
stop the wind
from ripping all the careful journals of your life
to up, away?
what is there
what possibly is there
to stop the ungentle and ungracious wind
from stealing away
your soul’s crumpled paper airplane?
what is there to stop the wind
from finally setting it flying?
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Submission Name: Serenity?...
