Second Poem; Sulking Winds

Razia Afzal

Sulking Winds

Erratic and magnetic winds begin to murmur and hurdle towards me.
He shifts the aligned elements of ballistic parasites that re-define the flashed hordes, beneath the skin. 
It whistles in my ear, as a midnight shape shift is breathing underneath man-made materials.
A connection is intervened with nature and man, as I reside the precautions of machines.
Humans carve their memorials above heaps of silver dusted stones, as I touch each daunted carved message; I begin to see images of the travellers before me, the birth of the seed, as I undermine the instituted vibe.
‘‘1850’’: this signals a straight message, which is nearer to home; he never came alone; his former friends created social isolation as the journey continued.
The Easter Island heads, caressing each tribe, levitate the inter-locked channelled culture.
A historian would venture for a magical adventure, but he is strayed as he is boned to his grave.
He jugs and tugs onto the bushes, as an attempt to push the creativity that is listed in his head becomes wasted blue bottles, gaining a divinity from the frozen iced sun, which forms a version of the anti-clockwise victimisation, implying a new formality.
His blood salvages the cliff; he was forced to conform a frail masterpiece..As animals gain a dependency from his companionship, licking and locking food’s taste of desperation, which was intended to bury the hunger. 
A heaved, bulky land wants to restore the prosperity of untamed attraction.
I watch horses grunt and moan, as a humorous behaviour adapts into another human, who becomes naked and bare, as the windy haze days gnarl to re-cremate embedded fear, as it mimics the deformed definition of a mirage, as the perfection destroys the heavy abstract memories that linger within an abundant human mind. 
I see the dead man’s shadow as he speaks with the voice of Odin; as the winds ravish to chime, he splits into partial sublime.
The journey has ended, but I turn away as the prosperous land will always remain the same, but will the ‘‘1850’’ ghost find another adventurer, to re-enforce the gut-menacing blame?
However, he passes the treachery of victimisation, which consumes a new abbreviation. 
He claims a curse; do not accept the lingering trick he promotes; he did have a spinning lust of envy, the exhalation of the cursed moor justified moral deficiency.