Wind blow now through my mind,
Blast out the mustering thoughts
That are littered there and
Heaped in stale repeating piles.
Buffet my aching body, numb,
Chill me through and replace
The damp cold that has crept
Into my joints, along my bones.
Let you take over the tugging
Of my steely hair to distract
My searching hands from seeking
Answers that cannot match their questions.
Or does this ? merely mark the warping
Of a onetime arrogant certainty?
Nothing to quest after in reality
Just chasing figments, elusive shadows.
I am pushed down into the up-turned
Collar of a jacket padded with illusions
As it flaps open in the ripping wind
Shredding dreams without concessions.
Fergus Carty
Ideas are like wandering sons. They show up when you least expect them.
~Bern Williams
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