Rising Wind

BORN of the body, memories 
Of where she was, and what she felt;
Every bone with different marrow,
Pangs that in the sun just melt,

Capillaries of inclusion,
All in one, and one in all:
Birthed in sorrow’s touch, and needing
Rising wind and waterfall.

There for the taking, melodies
That soothed her ears and calmed her heart;
Smells of breakfast cooking, frying,
Transferred to a world apart,

Knees and shoulders free from aching,
Hair no longer gray or thinned;
Born of the body, turned to fire,
Soaring on the rising wind.

Published by

Beleaguered Servant

Owen Servant is an online poet working in a style that's been described as "compulsive". In real life, he is an actuary, because being a poet wasn't unpopular enough.

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