JOHNMICHAEL SIMON POETRY

I blow with the breeze

shriek with the storm

fury in the flame

mire in the mud

 

I am a feather

a lost child

a soldier

a ransacker

a prisoner of war

 

I am all things

granite, greatness,

ashes

fireflies

inquisitions

 

I am strung

a cello string

a steel spring

my skin

burns with lashes

I am too sensitive

too porous

 

I burn

a scrap of ash

escapes

a few words

charred

unrecognizable

 

I am the last note

of an adagio

heard by an old man

on the stair