Breezes

Soothing the soul a breeze blows throughout thought and pace Reawakening kindled passion, but only for a time While the man with tossed hair and short stature Sits at a desk, waiting to be heard But only his pen speaks, meaning that everyone in the room Around him only hears etchings on films White as the cotton in his head, stained with the blackness Of release, like what you find in the bottom of those Ionic bathes after a long day of relaxation and cleansing But release is not all the paper allows The parchments also have orifices used both To speak and listen, that being the paper works Like a two-way street, allowing exuding mannerisms and bearing burdens Both reaching a pinnacle that both reader and writer feel exuberance