There was a time, if memories are true,
When breezes pushed the blades and made them race,
And whipped your silken hair about your face:
The windmill on the hill, and me, and you.
I wondered then, but never really knew,
If seeing you in motion meant some trace
Of living truly dwelt within your space;
I didn't know it then, but now I do.
For stillness is a snake with scales of rust
That winds about the armatures and gears,
Filling in the crevices and grooves,
And snuffing every spark, as stillness must.
The sky is choked with ashen, unshed tears,
A crow screams once, unseen, and nothing moves.