May – Mayn’t

My body, my exile;
Five fingers are not mine.
A pile of emotions,
Of affliction low in quality;
A serving of air
That tastes like nullity.

No one wants the wind
right at their windows,
But the wind howls
and whistles in my bones.

No one wants the thunder
sounding in their ears,
But the thunder runs
and echoes on my skin.

Tumbleweed, or hay?
Tumbleweed, is hair:
Languishing in anguish.

Do you pine away from life,
Or were you unwelcomed?
Do you pine away from love,
Or are you unlovable?
Can you sing this little ode,
Or did you lose your voice and language?

Can you dance, and run, and twirl,
Or have you been betrayed?

My mind, my exile;
Countless thoughts that are not mine.
A stack of disordered,
yet sensible disparity;
A symphony of dissonance,
Screaming into nullity.

-🔆-