I have become an unflipt calendar, with halting pages, slow. That, only, turn over, to; stop, freeze, lay, low.
A quickening mind of dates & times, that remains unmet. Whilst caught, fraught— lost, under a snow-driven age.
And, as life-long, cold barren winters, called, ‘Chronostasis’, hold to chilled ransom my nightly blights. They thrust toward me, unjust, piercing my exposed thoughts, with sharp ice-picks that cut right through the absence of my joy in evening’s light.
They bleed from my seasons, any chance of, a sun-soaked homecoming.
Instead, giving out to each, lone, shivering memory, yearning for familial embraces —
taut
a blizzarding blow that buffets away, any sense from me,
of those cosy, halcyon days:
my youth, spent a-bask,
in tobasco summer’s warmth.
Each night, that passes me by,
unmoved.
I am, further from, my point of equatorial origin.
And, so, I wander, lost; A requiem of frost glazed & cracked on my window’s secret pane. I tried to cut my loss in woods — glass-eyed, cross. But, the frozen plaque on my see-through heart it stayed.
I was not the same after you left. So, I wander, lost, like, uncaught breath.
I exhaled mouthed mist. Upon crystal apertures. To scrawl your name and face. But, no matter the words I scribed, or, tears I stopped & shied. The Condensation’s dots: below, atop — crying i’s, still do not reveal your gaze.
So, I wander, lost. In branchly moss. Until, my private pane, defrosts. Hoping one day for a view:
The name Edith, of Old English origin, means “prosperous in war” or “rich in battle”. It combines the elements “ead,” meaning “wealth” or “prosperity,” and “gyth,” meaning “strife” or “war”.
Perseid in British English
(ˈpɜːsɪɪd ) noun. any member of a meteor shower occurring annually around August 12th, appearing to radiate from a point in the constellation Perseus and derived from comet Swift-Tuttle. Word origin.
I saw you in the afterglow, of the tailed swishes, across a Gloaming’s sky. I caught you in my roaming eye, like, failed wishes; reborn From their own crashes; grown.
For twenty years, you have shined on high. Casting the heavens bright, from the wealth, of burning flames, on August nights. That rage, like; war, within your name.
I witness their fractured patterns. Thinking of you — whole. And, reminisce, on the fire in your soul. There, I visit your scattered ashes. Scorching; dark, white, like, coal. Unlimited in death, as you were in life;
Now, here, I forever wait. On the horseback cusp, late. Of a wish’s, yet, to come, truth. An outlier, fallen under hoof. Broken, misspoken.
Eating other’s empty words.
But, I, green, unstill, have black-sanguine dreams. In my tossed, turned, undying sleep. Of misfortune returning me, unto this bitter Earth. Where peace can’t take root, only; rumble, brief, under warmonger’s boot.
I feel at home among the trees. And their omnipotence; branched afree. There’s flourishment in their fawns and parakeets. That creates to grow away; greyed infinity. A jump for life; cyclically. Like, immortal leaves, that fall froze in frost, then, are flung by spring. They, unashamedly, leap upon sunny treen. In uncaught, gasping vistas. Not, lone, soiled views. When seeds’ pure persistence, reach up, in their air; for me and you. Those strong roots entwine and twister. To come on home; for precious scions; to live and breathe and bloom on through.
I wear an effacing kaleidoscope disguised with colours shapes and patterns on a visage coyly laced in fabric misanthrope with unpulled woollies under disregarded eyeful shards sawn and shattered. I loathe the lens that I’m purviewed through and the friends I can’t allude to unpleasant is the ocean’s end of the spyglass I boo-hoo through why did I try to pretend? I yearn for the courage to perform an optical iconoclast and burn those judge’s visions scorned like tropical bombs ablast that carry and deliver me discerned on currach-ed wings to peaceful shores.
poorman'sdreams 