Highly Seasonal Being

 

I am a highly seasonal being.

Seasonally Affected-

Disordered-

(SAD).

What’s the point of winter?

It only breeds grey melancholy

Which itself sounds like a sickness

And it is.

Every year I tell myself

That my soul was made for darkness

Because no-one understands me

Me the least.

Drudgery. We drudge

We trudge

Exist. Persist. Nothing more.

Die a thousand times a day

of gnawing woodworm apathy

Creeps into all our hollows and our holes.

 

Then Earth’s marble rolls towards the sun.

It’s alien

It’s a tender March we scarce yet dare believe.

Soul-thaw heart-thaw thought-thaw

And all the flat heavy dullness

Sheds like a skin-

I am out of the cage

I did not know I was in.

Flaunting beauty I do not possess

Because it’s all there for the taking

Trying on the languid airs of older times

Lazy lolling loving

Rocked gentle in life’s curved cradle.

 

And the nights-

Oh, the nights-

Never-ending, blue as magic,

Redolent of heat and tarmac.

Devouring balcony stars

With my bare bones on the concrete

Dreaming long before I sleep,

With words ringing in my ears

Filling my chest like seawater

Could expire of inspiration

Fain drowned in ghost letters

Running rivulets, out of me,

Ink hastens to the page.

Catch my blurring fingers now in flight.