Love, Lust Longing
Towering above,
The trees dictate
the movements of me.
I whistle to the branches high above me,
Begging them
To bend, to wave, to change
The rules the mourning doves
Set long ago.
Nay, the trees
can't bend
can't change
can't go against
Those unsaid rules
I rush into the trees,
Not realizing what they are
bruised, beaten, broken,
I pick myself up
And try again,
For I am
the wind.
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