Why the wind cries

I heard you, singing outside
and whistling alone, whirring faster
howling, turn to screaming like
some superbike on an insane midnight ride,
then suddenly quiet, whispering in clouds.

Tell me a story of your journey, guilty,
the thrill you felt inside twisters eye,
you cry out at the pain you caused, try
to confess to us all,
shouting into the
windows and door.

When you think no
person listens
or hears you,
you reduce
with your voice,
receeding and retreat,
to your guilty shame,
in trauma muttering.