Static Song

I ran through the wood,

snapping moldy twigs

and low-living branches.


The wind weathered

at my shoulders,

carrying the cries

of the rustling leaves,

the mellow wailing

of the brook-


trapped in their world

of nonliving. They yelled

at me like they always had

done, exposing themselves

to my unsightly eyes-


usually nothing more

than overlooked timbres.

I cackled at the wind-


sure, these leaves and

the creek might be seized

screaming forever and a day,

but in time I would be made

to stop running.

This poem is about: 
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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