The Riot

She lives in the wind

or so the riot tells me.

A golden flame, a pale rapture, an elemental catastrophe,

all of this, and more, the riot will say.

An invisible trail, she leaves,

on the streets we have walked, in our rumbled bed.

But she is never lesser.

Her hours of toil beget mere moments of calm,

for there is no taming her, only the lie thereof.

She walks never straight, but in tangles, in weaves,

and on wild paths only the trees can name.

She lives in the wind

or so I’ll say

from now until the end of everything.

Many will try, and many will dream of her at peace,

only for a moment’s breeze to unravel her.

to take her skyward.

to unleash her.

The riot, she is.

In body, in spirit.

And those who would tame her,

had best beware.

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J Edward Neill

About grimwain

J Edward Neill is a surreal artist and author. He lives in a cavern in North GA, where the sun shines too much, but the bourbon is fantastic.
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