The Whisking

I thirst.
For the spells I have cast, to last. For the winds of constant change to carry me, fast. For time to slow down in moments of internal glow, and for it to hurry down the hourglass when lovers are apart.

I yearn.
For the negligent youth that is spent. For carefree days under Gray chunks of cloud. For illusions of friends and apparitions of enemies.  For mistakes made and lessons re-taught, and the power of will once owned. 

I seek.
For the path leading into the guts of the soul. For the blueprint of the mind’s labyrinth. For the trigger that will wind the heart to a blissful steady tick. For wax wings to soar the air, to discover the margins of the zestful sun.

I fall.
For pacts with forces yet unknown. For propagating emotions and flustering devotions. For intensely lucrative connections of a decade’s gap.

I rise.
From the depths of bleakness through abysmal kisses to a state of elation and glory.

I wonder.
Wandering beyond the fray, will the Whisking stay or will it end, will it obey or defy instead. But if hope dies last, then so will this.