A Windy Morning

There are moments that breathe like lungs,
Some carry us to destinations like our cultured veins,
Others destroy us like the spleen–the death yard of red memories.

Memories can be the wind that carries us northwards,
To the sojourner's place where we dance in an anthill,
Tapping our swollen feet and forgetting our voyage,
To people soaked in regrets–disguised as fortune,
Northwards is the luminescence of our past.

Places are memories,
People are memoirs,
The afterwards of soothing desires in a pirouette,
Soaring our emotions of happiness and despair,
Remembrance becomes the memoir of a memory.