This is not a poem. I am not good at poetry.
When you feel like the wind, staring at that little screen- staring,
a strange sadness settles on you.
You never expected to be here.
Although you haven’t really moved a lot, just from the west of the city to its east,
And your life hasn’t really changed a lot on the outside,
Still, you never expected to be here.
It’s such a strange place. Such an alone place. You aren’t lonely, but you are alone.
Feel it soften as it takes the sway, as it tries to live alive again in you.
This place is bewitched, they said,
bewildered, beguiled, befuddled,
it’s windy and perpetually stormy,
cliffs and tangled trees
and horrible jagged ends and edges-
familiar. You’ve been here in a dream before. You’ve been here in a dream. It could be a bit clichéd- who hasn’t sung or drawn or felt or breathed like they were a lone figure in a fracturing storm; who hasn’t felt that wind in their mind- even when the air is so still- working away, those unseen things that bring the powerful everlasting wind,
It should have been bad.
There is a scent on that wind,
huge and large and exciting and-
full of grief- it brings the terrible feelings of missing somethings, somethings wonderful, out there, it brings its tears in its wafts of moving air,
the storm is coming, but it don’t matter anymore cuz you were always there anyway.