I like to think of myself
as a strong wind, snoring
away the tragedy of silence
from the hands of the sky.
The sky is red and loves
music, just like I do.
He loves to feast his eyes
with the curves of all
the fiery green fields and
tasty seas, he calls art the
breath of these things but
his hands long to hold
something new, and on
days when the sun creams
his face with its radiance, I
wish to be all that he feels

but I want to be something
else, something that dares
the darkness to break into
sweat, riding across the
shoulders of time with one
hand holding the memory
of a future I have carved in
my mind in the shape of an

I want to be something new,
the sight of fresh bloom on
a carpet made of winter,
the smell of ash on a day
like this—when it is evening
that spreads its drunkenness
on the grass, and the soil
begs to be bathed with

I want to be all the light that
makes heaven, all the new
songs, all the chirp that falls
from the teeth of birds as they
praise the wind,

I want to be a strong wind,
and by this I mean—
I want to be myself.











Photo by Saad Chaudhry on Unsplash