Poem By Anita Atina
Sometimes our thoughts chase each other
Like dust devils, twirling
Growing with harried friction.
Clinging to the empty husk of fear,
Gaining mass at the speed of conjecture,
Rising on inexplicable warm winds.
And just as suddenly, collapsing into the nothingness
Of dust, from whence they rose
As soon as cool winds blow in.
Oh those wicked dust devils
Plague thoughts, and
Don’t let us see clearly.