If the Wind Could Speak

If the wind could speak,

Would it confess that momentum,

No longer feels like liberty?

Following currents,

Laid out like conversations,

It never agreed to have.

A thousand hands, hidden,

Pressing against something,

That has none of its own.

Perhaps movement,

Has always looked like freedom,

From a distance.

And direction is something,

Only those rooted to the ground,

Are obsessed with.

For the wind is not lost.

It simply becomes what the world asks of it.

And though it once may have wandered,

It can no longer tell the difference,

Between instinct,

And inheritance.

A powerful force,

So accustomed to being carried,

It has forgotten what it feels like,

To fly without the weight,

Of influence.