The Winds

Winds from the south blow over the hills, to move the paper around my room.
My poetry journal ribbon moves, as the cold wind makes it flutter and dance.
Green hills seem so close, yet they are so far away for I am locked tightly inside.
To the hills, I look hoping the cold winds will blow all the hatred from my heart.
Then the rain starts to show, and the window to the outside must be closed.
My poetry journal ribbon does not move to the beat of the wind anymore.
So, I stand up straight and walk into the rain and the wind so I can feel it all.
I say to the winds, “Promise me this. Promise me that you will take my heart, make it cold, and blow your love through me.”

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