Truth In A Gust Of Wind

Here you can read me, for here am I. I am not in a book somewhere, or a magazine over there, on a billboard anywhere...I am here, for now. I am not at all popular, not on everyone's tongue, not in vogue, or fad or followed by anyone. I am rarely spoken of and only then, in whispers, or in gossip's or in rumors, never claimed or chimed or clamor'd nor attended, as so many others are. I am that page the wind whips to you on a breeze, that meets you from afar, becomes plastered to your face. You rip me off, annoyed...my tumbled words lay crumpled on the street, as you stalk off...pissed and lathered to a frenzy. I am that word that stands before your door and knocks, that spelling you cannot un-spell...notice served, that has been given for your good. I am that Santa Clause of form, from high above your house, that gift of tie or sock you didn't want, but always knew was coming down, that you're simply out of breath...for avoiding. Put on that sock. Tie up that tie, to hang yourself, or...appear as instructed, here...before the truth. Don't make me waste my wind. Truth Out.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, in Deming, New Mexico

Art: A Gust of Wind by Paul Cocksedge, dezeen.com