Wind

A whisper blows through the cold-empty home
The child’s laughing has now all slipped past
The boy wants to know why he’s sent off alone
But his answers are just biting cold-empty wind.

The same whisper drifts through library’s crypt
Sampling and saving cold-empty ideas
It’s silently tracked and now seeks a new home
And finds the lost boy-man’s searching still-empty ears.

The boy’s now become an inquisitor grand
He sits in the tavern and waits
For his brother, though the other seeks his comp’ny that night
And all ‘round the tavern blows the cold-empty wind.

The wind’s now inside, swirls and freezes his soul
The whispers are ravings and speak now void-true
With talon-vice grip swings around on his hip
Are you there?
I am here.  You will never be dear to anyone least of all me.
Frantic throwing and falls
Whispers blow through it all
Wind takes shadow-form
Tears at him, breaks glass-shatters his mind
It’s only fitting your cold-empty soul.

(This poem was written for a pull question that asked us to write creatively on the state of the soul of Ivan Feyodorovich Karamozov from Brothers Karamozov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky)

(hmm...Russian names are much nicer to say and look at than ours)