Wisted Winds

Max Meunier, master wordsmith

Max or Not

autumn softly falls
with dusky arms
along the sprawling desert

steady shadows
stretch across drab mountains

beneath undulous lunar fleece

peace
at last
returns

the valley undisturbed
lay brushed with slow umber

the tow of our loss

now a blustering aria

riding on the wisted winds
of change

footsteps
may never we furnish
to fill

giant then
as we have become

touted

in this tawdry place

no plea for purpose

born as we are
to belong

bare witnesses
witless to bear

through journeys long
we rediscover
freedom
was e’er in our hands

bleeding
from our faltering fingertips

to see us
endeavor
as ever we are

children
of uncharted stars

our hearts surpassing
time’s distortion

waiting
to again
forget

[image credit: Edvard Munch]

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