Wind whistles, piercing through, up and around me.
It is not cold but sharp like broken glass.
My world is shattered, broken glass,
and the wind is my friend.
Within sight but not reach, the warm, green hills beckon.
Of other lives, like the man working his cow
and the mud pit, and the tall grass, laughing, bowing to its audience of one.
It mocks and beckons, telling tall tales of yet another elusive dream.
Yet out there, a place exists, and this land is reminiscent.
So I stay until the sun is past its setting
in the quiet, unknowing
letting life go on its living
myself idle and unmoving.
But dreams are mist
Only hopes remain
A whispered prayer.
I take the steps beneath me.