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Air

In rambling talk I have ranged

Listening to the gale blow,
I recall the banshee of memory,
Spectres of what was
haunt my thoughts,
And I recall the pain,
and joy
and love
and anguish,
that was life.
That was love;
Now, not quite dead yet, I cling to what was,
Anchored in place, moaning with the high winds.
I wait; unsure whether bound
for heaven or rebirth,
hell, or mere void.
I know not.
I wait nonetheless.
And in waiting, I imagine myself screaming
too, with the winds,
cycling and spiralling skyward,
abandoning the cold gale
for being too full of hot air,
stoked with the heat of love,
ranging from joy to pain
and back again,
all the while dancing with my mirrored shadow.
That was life! To feel the freedom of feeling itself
 
Now, chained inside
Bound
listening to the roar of what was,
I live a sort of half life.
Waiting.

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