like the snow before spring,
i am the last breath of frost in the air,
a bitter goodbye to frozen mornings,
mornings now filled with sunshine and despair

like the flowers in summer,
i am the reflection of aging beauty,
crinkled wrinkles are my cover,
a dried up bloom fulfilling my duty

like the warmth in autumn,
i fall with the leaves, orange,
and blood red, i slumber at the bottom
a fatal rest in a hidden grange

like the tress in winter,
i wilt my wings, nosedive
from the rain, pitter patter,
awaiting the silence to arrive

like the snow before spring,
i collapse once again into the ground,
tired, restless, unable to sing,
the seasons just keep spinning me round

and in a beautiful show of collapse all around,
a shower of stars bleaches the ground

beauty fallen, but not from grace
beauty sodden, but not your face

a leaf sobbing in autumn winds,
i am but one of many for whom you sing

a song of light from the silent moon
i listen not for the lyrics, but for your croon

and in a beautiful show of collapse all around,
a glowing breath of life i have found
i live not for the beauty, but for the sound
i live not for the life, but to you i am bound

and like an unfinished song,
i keel on the verses of empty,
and fall into restless sleep
upon senseless lyrics and
painful choruses

that i am forced to sing,
my throat yielding to the
puppet strings of life, rending
every note, torn into fractions
of a melody so haunting only
i can hear

the facade of beauty erasing
the colours of melancholy,
i am bound to an unfinished song
that is me

and it’s still there,
waiting, patience unending,
whispers caressing the insolent ear,
whispers from the bright side of the morning
and the right side of the bed

a tender, soft voice, partly aching,
chiding me, moving a stubborn reality,
gentle but clear as day, clear as
the rocking waves reflected on the
immovable sands of time

a touch, almost a hand,
slightly inhuman but warm all the same,
a nudge into the brighter side of the morning,
a push into sight without eyes and listening
even with an insolent ear,
to breathe in the whispers from another age,
and make them my own.

and it’s still there,
etching the word
“WRITE”
into my mind, an endless chant
of movement and life,
rhythmic but not a drawl,
not a drag, rather a whisper
from the brightest side of the morning