on days like wind

On days like winds,
you stare at the dots forming in the scrubbed bare wall,
Pondering your conception. Who will I become?

*

Because we are fine and so fucking fine at that you do not see the pallid, the lacklustre crawling beneath the thinly veiled flamboyance; cracking under the pressure of their 'could be'. They say, you were the hint of genius; mad, insane and so brilliant in their conception because you are going to be the first in a long generation of failed successes, the diamond child with the sparkling potential of a misshapen gem. The first. The virginal sacrifice. You are going to bring them so much glory. Do it for yourselves. Don't you see your own light? And no, you don't. You can only hear the myriad of their voices, never your voice, because what is your voice in the drowning sea of multiplicity - screaming and vying for attention. Dying.

*

On days like wind,
you wish for the expanse of the galaxies and her stars to fall into alignment, into the right places. And you trace the outlines of the stars, hoping. The Ursa Major and the multiple legends that follow; King Arthur, Callisto and the tales of chinese dragons all crashing and melding into an incoherent whole.

You wish the stars would chart the story of your life.

And on days like wind,
when the world grows quiet and soft,
careless and free,
you disappear into stardust, into myths and legends.