unpunctuated

empty, I resonate
with the song of the trees
when the white swans mutely
pass high and northwards
like a drum, tight
and trembling I
open my self to the stick
that will percuss me
and further my air
to the other side
I’ll roll empty
along Ðunnor’s path
the hard heaven above
into the depth of the fire
that is the wind and
the voice unquenched
like a moth, spreading
the wings one more time
and in resonance
winds will become storms
storms will hurricane
and whirl, and carry
shards of the broken
onto a different plane

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