In Passant

A voice like tears stressed and strained
Seen through but not broken by
The invisible storm, pressed and rigid
creak of panes, shrilling but unbroken. 

It is the wind in passant, crowded, lulling,
and, never truly gone, hissing.
Wave after benign wave making the world
Collapsed, louder, closer.

Sorrows from its deep howls and moans
Rise from its empty gullet like ribbon wrapped and rolling
Fingers bent, bones showing, under leaves,
Crumpled brown and plucked away to become
Wraiths in the night. 

It is not wicked but, empowers the complacent,
Stirring invocation to change at its very roots and,
Hidden places where shadows deepen to linger,
Long and sullen.

It is the wind and it has spoken in,
Its tongued aspiration, perpetual, in motion 

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