Inheritance of Wind
Written: September 6, 2025
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The wind does not knock—
it slips through the soul’s lattice,
a breathless envoy
from the hush between stars.
It strokes the cheek
such as a spirit reliving purity,
then fades away,
becoming simply a whisper
of a melody sewn into stillness.
My terms come apart
in the string of stems,
where faint words
weave between tufts of grass
that curl with hymns
that are lenient to say.
Birdsong flows
from lungs in rooms full of people—
a hymn to the untamed,
to the pain that hums
simply seeking to be felt.
Love, in its most genuine form,
surpasses the structure of cognition—
It resides in the root of air,
in the rhythm of the intangible.
No note is ever lost—
each tender tremble,
each faltering flight,
is archived in the breath
between dusk and dawn.
We save our dreams.
In the shaft of the Horizon,
in sparkles that linger
on the verge of entropy.
These are the germs of tomorrow
tumbling in the blood
of the eternity we dare to call.
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