My Gift, Ma Pêche
ah, look outside, it is the first first snow of the season. I was going to let this speak for me somewhere, but that somewhere will have to be here for now.
the winter flight
to have come to this, like spots in the snow
the slow torture, the slight wisp of the wind
was it march or may when we were happy
or was it the flux predicted, this dream.
the songstress always stops before the fall
and the summer of my discontent, gone.
when the first months held such promise, now gone
underneathe the careless and trembling snow.
but the season has not yet reached its fall
when we still can lean back into the wind
and be held and beheld and lose and dream
faultless, carefree, vacant, safe, happy.
was it sadness that preclude the happy
was it pride that let go of the be gone
how the long night might prevent us to dream
yet leave the sense of ever lasting snow
lashing with the force of the wind, the wind
as i saw in the twilight of the fall
no bard nor dancer can perform the fall
of you into my lore and myth happy
still changes are erratic in the wind
and forgets where the center may have gone
faltering, chilling like the icy snow
when she wants to wake me up from this dream
the motifs remain constant in my dream
as all tragedies to do with the fall.
in pale novembers i can taste the snow
whose bitter nature made us so happy
used to, anyway, until it is gone
lofted upon the heavens in its wind.
what beauty in its wake, oh godly wind
what serenity that follows this dream
were we callous or fearful to be gone
from this absurd world, to this quiet fall
always up/down, oh Lady, be happy
inspire like a single flake of the snow
posted by Zephyr ex Machina at 21:23
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