Under grey January skies
An orange hued voice rambles
On and on about frivolities,
Spewing its languid hatred
And swaying the masses
Like trees bent under powerful wind
With false promises
Of a better future
Composed of a whimsical greatness
Of which no one can hold
When the truth really looks
Outward with greedy eyes,
Counting its profit, fame, and power.
Spring started slow that year
Or at least after the frigid winter it seemed slow.
We all waited for the sun,
Prayed it would return one day.
After what we had seen,
After the months of darkness
And the nights of plunging temperatures,
Diving into the furthest depths of Dante’s hell,
It seemed a miracle for anyone to be alive,
Nay have hope after that winter.
I don’t know what came first,
If our senses failed
And we then lost hope,
Or if the loss of our faculties
Came as a result of our resolve
Freezing over with our hearts.
Undeniably so, however,
Our eyes soon forgot what colors were.
The sleepiness of summer warmth seemed
Like a parcel of a dream,
A memory of another life
In days with more light.
I am undone
Your words burn the air
Remnants of a time gone by
The full moon enveloped my breath
As I exhaled dreams of tomorrow
A splendorous sun above
A day graced by your benevolent eyes
Eyes of the sun, eyes of the moon
All eyes cried
At the sight of me