The Whistle of the Wind

So harsh is the whistle of the wind

As the earth buckles and the towers of glass and steel tremble with fright.

A pedestrian coughs revoltingly as her peers dodge barely noticed buses.

There is no logic here, no coherence to the time so it passes rudely.

Night hours race and leave sheets barely ruffled

While the tyres wear out and the horns blare on.

A meek fellow sits in a right little jam pondering excuses he’ll never use.

He’ll just drive to work and take the lash without a word.

You’d barely notice the bags under his eyes getting larger and darker

And his skin showing the atrophied flesh beneath it.

He’s a pending one-line obituary and has the sense to know it.

Piles of students stack classrooms that stack schools that stack a central balance sheet.

The sheet says all is lost.

The youth, the future, the hope that mollifies the patient while the doctors do their rounds.

Morbid learning is the chorus while the players boil in their youth.

Glacial teachers yearn to be close, to thaw, but just end up freezing their captive young.

So the present turns to stone and the future evaporates to air,

Some escape, some make it we are told with an earnestness deserving murder.

The higher ledges yield the more entertaining falls, do not deny us!

This is the universal poison, the hemlock drunk before we had a say

We all fall, and let us mock the air as it races past

The final earth approaching.

The meek man’s fire is embers only

Unfueled it licks its last.

Can the fire ignite again before the freezing starts?

If not then fine, it is expected

The ledge beckons, the crowd is bated

The rush of air as the frozen thing tumbles

And shatters on the ground

So harsh is the whistle of the wind.

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