The turning of the day.

The wind, the sun, the stars, the snow ; the wind.

Something was not right in me.
Something twisted and turned inside
out
of me.
Awakened by the gales
blowing from the five corners of the world
Tormented, shattered, the blunt instances of the ego
Became yet again sharper, unique
Found their desire in this mourning morning of memory.

I sighed.


*

alone, we are not much
alone, we can not touch
feel
the world turning
its cheek away from the sun
alone, we are not one