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Poem
No winds are winnowing enough
To put a quill back in the hands of the dead poet
Or confidence back in the trachea of the strangled speaker
In me
Because no words are as vile
As no words at all
Where they're wanted

Sensitivity not sublime
Nor careful when it comes by
I feed no attention to the egocentric
I don't sew my lips before the arrogant 

I've learnt frankness is a sin
A snake oil with a venomous sting
It pierces hearts, taints their insides
So I remain in the corners of minds
Where the light's stretched far too thin
So that anytime I mumble in a moment of dread
Or so much as chuckle saying what I've said
The sound waves just linger - A musty frequency
Better off dispersed than heard

No winds are winnowing enough 
So as awkward it remains 
If for no one but I 
Because the air is only stale
Wherever I exhale

And when I do the mirror fogs
It gets too cold when I see my flaws-
A face with nothing to offer
Much like a vault that sees no prosper 

No winds are winnowing enough 
To blow the sands off my mirror
So, if a lack thereof, 
To hope, I may surrender 

Hope is like a poetry,
It's alive in the Literary 
Write, so I shall, journals and mails,
So every night my breath prevails,
But when I seal the envelope, 
I see the fall of hope,
A post with no address has nothing to contain

Hope is like a canopy,
Rooted in cookie crumbs,
A masquerade, a make-believe,
But ants could never be earthworms
The guise would still soak up enough water
So death may arrive a day later

No winds are winnowing enough,
And the earth remains elsewhere -
A witness to dying greens
That cling onto life as I do hope

Often that flame is snuffed out
When all my trials could show is doubt 
But not before fate and time inspire 
Some fuel to this fire

How could my cranium be cleaved 
If I ever closed my eyes and leaped
Without ever having reached 
Several floors from the concrete 

Still no winds are winnowing enough
So my corpse shall lay there
Its stench reaching no one
And its soul going nowhere 

My nerves will scream, my mouth unable
I ooze gangrene, my body unstable
I bend, I unwind, as maggots tear away,
I try to move, I try to die, but my body shall always stay

I will soon be nothing but bones
Still bearing fleshy undertones,
With every fibre hollowed within
Arises an echo of all my sins
Etched, undying, on my tombstones

Still, I trust God when times are tough
And let the sun rise and the night fall
But no winds could ever be winnowing enough
There are no winds at all
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