Restoration of fate

It is the little bits gathered
on a night of winter storms
gratefully complex winds whisk over
the fragile myths of the city
the windows shake and the rain
hits like darts from above
the rain of death if you were
caught up in a drenched field
your boots at stake with every step
you climb down dead trees
hoping it may bow down
let you off with grace
and you fall sharply
through the floor
and strike the
hard ground

you paused

you gathered your thoughts
and picked up a bit of the strange
ways of the myth, you caught the results
of other thinkers in the hot and fetid valley
you call your crowd, you see up and down
but if they were there
on the board
picking up their piece
and running it about
like a symbol of their
fierce shouts

indeed it is only the sharing of thoughts
that way in which we share our distinctiveness
in a strange world where equality is different

the fading senses
as we head off toward sleep
and the dream world where
final departure is welcome