Burning Man

Tender tufts of the burning man sink,

ash blown,

as wandering touch ascends to conquer,

cover,

 kiss,

 a spirit burning bright ,

a flame ever rending,

 a soul simply engendered to a message,

the message of all words,

and breath,

 the tones of erratic order.

Tongues wag unheard in their restless fear,

the kindling is all that rages, speaks,

these tufts on the night breeze,

gently screaming,

“ behold my heat and thus explore your own.”

Tale of a Season

The telltale wind whips like a lash.
Binds the soft tressy fibers of her hair
around down, looped and pulled,
in the chaotic gnashing of weather’s wailing.
She blends,
hunter-like, around the shadows
of ingratiating solitude with a solemn façade,
born of rage.
Silent ire building, increasing,
exploding without a single sound.
The decibels lay within her reigning shout,
increasing precipitously
by mute rote
a thief in her silent night of plunder.
Lay waste to her, lay waste to her, lay waste to her.
Environs spike, binding ties,
break,
presumptuous in their knowing.  
 Shielded, missed and missing
she wanders on.  
 The inside struggle strove and touchless
keeps unaware of the notes,
her life music held inside stilted on mute.
She blends,
she is…all she’s ever known of the “I am.”