Whispering Wind

We stand in the wind as if its bite has no effect.
Daring it to knock us level to the ground.
We mock the naked trees and envy the tumbleweed.
Still the vacated cave can't stop its whispers.

At the end of the road we expect more than a bowl of pistachios. Something more to stand in place of our suffering and travailing. Anything just short of a parade where people line up and habitually wave as you pass by is an insult. After all you did leave your guts splattered in a ditch along the way--without complaint. Images regurgitated from the floors of our bowel duct display like old home movies played on reels revisit hoping to find relief. The bitterness is more than we can handle, but to release them would cause us to declare ourselves whole. This would of course require further action on our part. To let go of the written form letters we submit as excuses as to why we didn't and couldn't bring ourselves to turn the corner. The side streets are alluring but the Broadway is well routed.