Riptide Fly

Riptide Fly

Is it possible the I am the wind of nothing?

that blows by like the whisper of the night?

Determined by the faintest fickle of a memory that is guided by thoughts of a moutain top

The bird only flies as the sky passes bye

The echoes of what was lost

Everything that eradicates your meaning of what is you is everything that has sold you to the leave that flew in the wind

It’s OK, the ocean doesn’t matter what is the Universe has spoken. It ponders the reality of going in, going out.

Fly away, riptide.

Mesmorized by the feeling of being lost.

Nothing is but a memory frost.

Just a passing thought, the frost will melt on the fallen leaves leaving a beautiful stain, so you will not be forgotten. : )
Nice poem.