there's this wind in the trees of this decemeber night;
it's pagan and yearning, and it calls to us.
howling and screaming,
making it's presence known,
it carries the scent of ancient noises.
there is blood on the leaves,
there is blood smeared on my skin.
it's impossible to bear,
the calling, yowling, lonesome wind,
and still it tries to knock at our doors.
then i am naked, and you are naked,
and we see the scratches and bruises
upon our transparent flesh,
but who put them there?
the call
is every present;
we are too weak to ignore it,
to ignore the urge to scream and tear at the trees,
to run through the tall grass and touch
all that we can touch,
touch each others nakedness and touch the salt of the sea.