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 woke up a poet
Most days in those years
In the beginning I was a painter
But my colors always ran
When the sun shone I was an athlete
Near water I was a fish
I wanted nothing more
Than to become the air, or the sea
Some days we philosophized
Touching a metaphysical reality
As we imbibed all of our indulgences
But most days, I woke up a poet
Those years were riddled with questions
That came about as I wandered
Down dusty paths
And forgotten alleyways
Questions that played out in my mind
In verse and in rhyme