Wet Hair In The Wind

Wet hair in the wind,

Whipping against the warp:

Walking with the lonely moan,

My coat zipped up and camera

Down, against the ocean of the sky,

Rhythms touch,

All nipped with chill,

The cat-calls, whistles of the mind,

And waiting,


For the chance,

As above my head,

Stars, asleep, decide;

They awake

With the wind on their backs

Yet in that wind, they ride.

A crackle to my right,

Not storms, except

That of the power

Running through the night's station,

And a shadow:

Rock formation up ahead,

Lies ominous, hiding in

No starlight for my path;

Staring at a circled ground

As bath-water teardrops stain my eyes

Green with envy,

White with cold

And fear the colours all up high,

Will never, for me, be clear.

The End

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