Static Song

I ran through the wood,

snapping moldy twigs

and low-living branches.

 

The wind weathered

at my shoulders,

carrying the cries

of the rustling leaves,

the mellow wailing

of the brook-

 

trapped in their world

of nonliving. They yelled

at me like they always had

done, exposing themselves

to my unsightly eyes-

 

usually nothing more

than overlooked timbres.

I cackled at the wind-

 

sure, these leaves and

the creek might be seized

screaming forever and a day,

but in time I would be made

to stop running.

This poem is about: 
Me
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

Comments

Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741