Home > Poetry > Wintersong


Our years fell out of season,
and just like that, it was over; we were nothing
more than calendar pages
ripped out of time, thrown out
and away, like an exhausted dream.

We were only words, feelings
frozen in action, waiting to drop
underneath the last of the stars,
unable to cling to anything
made of solid earth –
our wintersong became our final war.
I forget the tune, now.

Since then, I have worn the blame
like a burning albatross, one mistaken
for a phoenix; its songs scald
me with secrets, an innocence
that long-since seeped out of my smile.
You collected heartbeats
for decades – mine was not the first,
neither was it the last. But where do you put them?
Bury them, please.
It is the only decent thing to do –
everything else is calibrated wrong,
measured out with closed eyes
and shaking hands. Still,

it is better as it is. Your reasons
always left me too raw, split open
like a vein, the two halves
never again to be perfect and whole.
Once, we cultivated love
in a garden of prettier lies; I chose the fruit,
but we both tasted it as too ripe. Such harvests
never last, and worse yet –
they do nothing to sustain life,
or feed even the least demanding orphan of hope.

I loved you
as I loved myself –
without fail, even when I should feel
baser things, like shame. I loved you
as a tide ravishes the shore, ignorant
of one who is drowning. I loved you
like a blank page, waiting
for the gift of revelation.

But you were a starless clock,
a darkness without destination,
a footprint left in snow, an incomplete
midnight hour
where nothing gets out alive.

Categories: Poetry
  1. November 18, 2011 at 10:36 am

    love it, beautiful work, as always

  2. November 22, 2011 at 8:45 am

    Love this…like an exhausted dream…

    • November 26, 2011 at 2:45 pm

      Thank you so much, Ana! I’m glad you liked this. 🙂

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