The Wind

If you ask me about hope,
I’ll tell you about the days
when it knocks on my door
and I don’t answer.
When it comes to soften edges
and feed phantoms.
When it’s the cruel caller,
the corpse at the door.
When it waits dead.
On those days,
I don’t want what it brings,
so I become the wind.
I tear the roof from this house
and the sky falls in:
old wounds shake loose.

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