soliloquy of a season’s change

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morning winds weigh heavier and
the body feels like a helium balloon,
canvassing the landscape through
a bare string — surrounded in a haze
of lost headspaces, memories that
do not bring home the sense of peace,
all comfort cashed without a receipt.

when we have lived through the seasons,
it shouldn’t matter how long they last —
the fan rotates on its axis, turned very low
in a gentle rush of air to breathe all loss,
to compensate for mosquito bites felt/left
in the after-state of a day’s place of rest,

as the summer picks its tinders and twigs,
writes a farewell letter (a suicide note
that was discovered before its fulfillment),
and picks on its scabs and scars that
have survived the test of every crime
witnessed by the tender body of life —
high, helium, heavier, halfway done.

i pull back from the edge of the flight —
the flock of weathered passions and aged
ruminations, all in confinement —

i choose winters — undying deaths,
mossy sepulchers, fog-white dreams
and a ponderous pause — silent,
seething, singing.

© Anmol Arora 2018

Image source (Times Change by Dmitri Matkovsky)
For Midweek Motif at PU

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