The wind gusts outside
In it's lowly grumble-mumbo-jumble
Sounding like an old man telling
Forgotten dementia stories
Of youthful escapades.
No one cares anymore.
Everyone listens though.
You must listen to old grandad
Because…well,
Mom said you must
And her mom said she must
And grandparents like to talk.
So you nod your head
You blink your eyes
Letting that nuisance Wind
Sing its dull, grumbling song
Whapping against windowpanes
And porches and trashcans shazam!
Whap!
Gust!
Goosh!
Gush!
Bam!
Pap!
Smack!
All the trees go mad.
In their blind swaying,
Like straight-edge adolescents
Waving lighters to the beat
Of a bad concert.
Because…everyone does I guess.
Who started it all?
Probably the wind.
I don't know.
They swing anyways.
Those blind tree arms,
Trying to stretch flexible
For…the Wind?
It doesn't matter.
Only the young survive
Wind's harsh, annoying love.
Brittle and shriveled
Old, brute limbs dive to their death,
A death of rakes and black bags
Along with their leaf leaches.
It is a dual suicide.
No one likes the wind's serenade
And annoying love.
But still, the wind plays
And thinks...
Its good.