The Wind


The wind moves at a slow pace
Creating a whispering voice 
Talking to shadows as they creep 
Through the eerie and morose night.

Deep in a graveyard, the wind comes
It whispers untold stories to the dead.
And as the wind converses, death replies
With its own gruesome story.

It whispers the stories of the thousands dead:
Fighting wars, giving birth, protecting citizens.
As death continues to tell the stories,
Wind begins to whimper, until it becomes a storm.

The storm rises into the dreary night,
Until it bursts into tears,
Giving the landscape a glistening effect
And gives life to the seemingly dead planet.

Death becomes quiet, no longer whispering
For life has taken over the Earth
And the wind comes in at a slow pace
Creating a whispering voice.


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