Anthony Bianco Poet Rhyme

Windchime in a Hurricane.

Hanging almost angelically.
Praying for a breeze at the perfect pace.
Too soft, and it risks being exposed for being too fragile.
Too hard, and it risks being labelled too harsh and too cold.

The wind chime is singing so softly today.
It has mastered the art of veiling grief.
A bird on the blue bush tilting a beak is listening closely. 
A brief reprieve from its nest of ever-hungry beaks.
 
Here comes that hurricane again, tangling the wood and strings. 
Whisking sanity away. Strays gather in clusters of desperation,
Where children are told not to play, they rarely listen. 

Then comes that prolonged lull. 
Jagged thoughts gather themselves in spectacular futility.
The stillness is framed in a rugged mud,
An endless procession of pallbearers' deep gray.
 
Cherubs are trained to wade into hopelessness, 
At the risk of getting graffitied. They always listen.
Then bumble home with wings sprayed in blood and a harsh lesson.

Yesterday everybody quietly slipped away.
Searching for a fresh melody of optimism.
Nobody fancies being swallowed up by the gray.
Nothing is salvaged from a wind chime after a hurricane

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