Wearied

Haunted are winds...
sometimes towards north or south
or east or west
even the air at times is dusty
through eyes and noses
and all senses
they converge and if 
they query through questions
repeat frequencies
and let their problems
a variable
even answers are still
the poised presented
to observers
now nothing is left
but a mimic flower
found haunted.
Copyright © | Year Posted 2021

Poem

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