The wind tingles the rhythm of my wilderness until I become viridescent. I whistle to the grass as it expands beneath my bare feet, so I can walk without any pain and find myself freed from the confines of those judgments that only bring hatred. Since the rise of such greenness, I've been able to become a tickling for others as I become a massaging. Because inevitably, I will pass through, quietly, so the monsters that hide inside my unsung shadows can't disturb those wind's bashes that wake me up, so I can reach those places where laughter becomes a riddle that is to be enjoyed as much as it is to be solved, so I can tell others that the wishes they need to whistle are “the songs of yourself" and while HE dongs... --- dong --- Whitman. You might be tempted to graze the path that has been left behind for us to be but as I choose “not to take the other" HE bangs... --- bang --- Frost. You might choose the tightening of a closed door, but behind that frowned fist there's a lightning, how to reach it? “Except by Abdication of You" - No! It's me and SHE bangs: --- bang --- Dickinson. My house is now grassy as I've walked all around, the path I took grew wilderness, you'll never know which path is the less traveled as I've left behind the song of myself only to learn to adjudicate myself. My door opened. Isn't that what I've always wanted? --- dong --- !
The poems I am alluding to are: Me From Myself—to Banish by Dickinson, The Road Not Taken by Frost, and Song of Myself by Whitman.