These Windswept Plains
Silence washes over these empty plains
Some version of myself sits with eyes of stone
That are watching how nothing ever really changes.
An incomplete spirit is a broken spirit,
And growth runs merely surface deep.
The grasses bend and then they sway;
The grasses they dance just as they always have.
Windblown dust sears your swollen eyes,
Blinded by the same sands long ago.
So when the music slows and he reaches for your hand,
Don’t think that gesture has not been seen so many times before;
Or that the song will somehow not come to its usual taunting end.
Still plains whisper songs in silence-
Sang so tenderly to the broken-hearted.
Words spoken not aloud yet shattering just the same;
Vibrations can seem like thunder rattling across the plains.
When silence washes over us and we are forced to recall;
A battered spirit is a broken spirit
And some things just never seem to change.
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