On The Death Of Summer

The sun is burning, raw, through once-dark alleyways and doors,
The siren sussurance of summer has begun.
Today turns callous evils gold.
Every cloud I contemplate, drifts off in constant, changing shape,
Stealing sighs from sweet, stagnant days,
Headlight bright in heat so bold.
Lying with my back pressed into this lush, evergreen grass,
I dream of kingdoms filled with crystal,
Split the sunlight as I go:
Scattered teardrop wishes, torment fantasies of kisses,
Litter these pretty hours with nothingness.
Spit thunder to and fro.

This hazy afternoon bores through my gouching, soulless gloom,
Imaginary childhood pleasures,
And chances never spent.
Ah if one day could rewrite my palimpsest of wasted life,
This one would be my saviour,
To this one I’d repent.

Perpetually searching for some cliched sense of belonging I have thrown myself to various winds. Usually with the dreariest of consequences. Sometimes this results in poetry. Sometimes.

Last updated October 27, 2011