When I was thirteen, I made a promise to
the western wind, that I'd come back to her...

I guess I can say I've crossed one too many...
realising too late that all this time, they were...

I remember my first funeral:
everyone was either wearing black or white...

You taught me of fire,
mimicking its fury with limbs aloft...

I once found love buried deep
within the greys and blacks outside...

I suppose I've been dreaming again
of a possibility of another life...

The day I relinquish the land
I've called home, and the day after that...

I give in to the urge to pull away dry skin from...
gazing blindly at trees, ermine-drenched...

I found the street in daylight,
walked on its moss-throttled flagstone...

You, who trudges by the wearied
path, do you not know of...

I remember
a little house in Italy atop a sloping hill...

Not a poem. Just something I needed to write and...
No need to comment or rate or read, actually...