Arguments with destiny: 6

The lark is mad
and the nightingale’s tongue
is shorn to silence it;

the tree whipping its hair
in the wind is no tree but a girl
frozen in her tracks, stunned

from a blow to the solar
plexus, disarmed by the sound
of the lock turning clock-

wise in the door, the whistle
of wind escaping from its cage.
Such flimsy power in the mouths

of the would-be gods; and the wreath
of their petty accusations, the spit
that shines and sours in the dark.


In response to Via Negativa: Blithe spirit.

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