The sanctity of a whistle 2


A yellow wolf trampled and scurried up a long thin elbow. Long black hairs uprooted the harmony of discorded perception. The wolf wondered, what is this blue roof; why am I buried under leaves and whistle-brass.

From within I pillaged and ran, forward and frantic. Where was the wolf. He was within but now the whistle brought peace. Shray a running puffload explored a flashing green resemblance. A resemblance of inner sanctity and violence. The wolf pondered. Through a window a brush of leaves whistled and whined. Screeched and beseeched a greying cloud encumbered rain.

Down it poured, torrents of radiant sloping mice. I reached a fork; a fork of perception and choice. The west door beckoned an uprought finger, the right a glimpse and a pick.

The pick rusted and dissolved, time accepting a brilliant foreplay. The elbow thought, why did the wolf trample me so? A yellow wolf trampled and scurried up a long thin peg.


Leave a comment

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

Spam Protection by WP-SpamFree

2 thoughts on “The sanctity of a whistle

  • Daniel

    Ahh, I think all the arts are so similar; one moves from one to the other. For me music inspires my painting which inspires my poetry which inspires my video, and so the loop goes on.