How the Wind was Won

In a greyish-grey house

On a greyish-grey day

A greyish-grey boy

Pirouetted away.


Through baby-blue kingdoms

He hurtled and swayed,

His greyish-grey self

Being slowly replaced.


First went his senses

– The sights and the sounds

The bricks and the mortar

Of his greyish-grey house.


Even the flakes

Of his pangolin flesh

Made an emergency exit

From this death-defying quest.


The poor, torn kid,

Organs, bones, and regret

Wondered just what

Could be left to dissect.


Then, in a sort of

Sighed little                      swoop,

His questions were taken

And he turned into gloop.


The blobs of his being

Left streaks on the clouds

As the wind took him onward,

Up, up, and around.


Until, in a final

Upside-down frown

He turned to a rainstorm

And mosaicked the ground.


His greyish-grey neighbours

All came out to play

But their greyish-grey parents

All locked them away.


They sat at their windows

And yearned to escape,

To leave their own streaks

On the greyish-grey-scape.

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