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.

Signature Lina Ru