Drift

How amazing is the wind,
to feel that which you cannot see;
cannot touch back.

And how amazing were you,
after you had pushed your way in,
defeated indestructible china walls and of Berlin
only to blow right on

past.

The wind can move that which doesn’t wish
to be moved.
It can make the undanceable dance.
It can fill paper with nothing.

And then, what is left,
when it has played its fill
and moved on?
An empty hollow?
A limp marionette?

That is you,
invisible puppeteer,
counterfeit philosopher
of deep emotion.

You, like the wind,
cannot give life for long,
cannot exist in stillness.

You, like the wind, can fill
paper with nothing.
You, the inside
of nothing,

me,
your hollow.