WITH THE WIND

Collars tightened around the mind,
layers of luscious lies
thread their phantom pots of gold
into the mirages
existing past the cemetery
where all one's hopes
had been given funerals
by pessimistic undertakers
that thrive on dark eulogies.

Eyes drink in the swirling wisps
calling from the abandoned crib
which once was innocence's Nirvana.

It keeps stroking in caresses of impulse
slowly fraying each heart restraint,
tell one at least hears
a voice buried in the echoing chambers
of deep lament.

Growing a saber of pure epiphany
to slice away the tether to impotence,
seeing the leash of conformity
lying so disarmed upon the ground.

Walking away
bruised, but filled with new glow
holding onto the rope,
connecting one
with the wind.