Begetting

The wind blows down empty hallways
looking for a flame to flirt with
or a body to caress.
It howls, lost
wondering why the halls
stood silent and
deserted,
why all the mothers are not attending crying children,
why all the shadows and demons are not frightening the young into their bedtime stories,
why all the lovers are not sneaking into their beloved's bedchamber.

The hallways, dark and still
smelled of old flames' smokey souls
snuffed before midnight.
Mourning, the wind whispers
ancient sonnets that traveled on its path
leaving behind bleeding hearts dripping of rose petals
wilting down the cold steps.

Curling upwards, the gusts thrash dried buds against each other,
desperately searching for something to hold,
something to remember

a time when hallways bustled with life
when flames eternal lit the nights
and laughter echoed back to the songs of the wind.

Blowing in the Wind

How many times do I have to let go
before I feel liberated from the weight?

It's like an incredible sinking stone
that hits the bottom
so hard
it shatters through, resurfacing
to an even deeper space
to sink in further.

How many days must I make
and fill with my life
before I feel full?

I wake up and make french toast,
I read books about theory, watch Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid,
I go to work, I go to class,
I put every ounce of myself into the things I love,
but somehow still have
empty space
reserved.
Somewhere I am waiting.

How many miles must I run
before I am far away enough,
before I scream and cry enough,
before I break and change and rearrange enough,
before I stop trying, and
am brave enough
to let go,
and finally mean it?