Det här är mitt favorit väder
När allt står still
När gräset är grön och täckt av de löv lämnat tillbaka av höstens träd
När solen hälsar, och skymtar ibland.
Och de nakna träd som rör sig av den svaga och härliga vinden.
Den är just den vinden som kommer bärande med vårens uppkomst och dess sjungande fåglar.
The roses are right beneath me, yet the sharp weeds behind seem to find a way to sweep me under
suddenly, and with hardly any warning.
How can I see the paved road ahead when the spot I’m standing on can barely hold my weight
shaking and trembling I stand on one foot.
They say ”stop looking down and see your direction”, but the deep dark hole underneath has a possessive, obsessive spirit that haunts my present
what a funny word it is, present.
it can never be returned, it can never be thrown away, only accepted either with grace or with bitterness.
It kept happening again, and again, and again.
Till I began to tire of the word. Yet the word never seemed to tire of me.
It kept sinking its ancient teeth into my naivety. I was the leftover fish, thrown out in the cold.
To me, it seemed like the beginning of a day that had no end, a day that wouldn’t grab me when I convinced myself to keep my hold.
The word multiplied and became more, while I, wrinkles and all, rotted to the core.
For I am always mourning the loss of the life I could’ve led.
The music I could’ve played.
The love I could’ve had, and given.
The light I would’ve beamed, from the knowledge, that I have it.
I have the laughter flowing free, awaiting the moment to burst out of my chest.
The feeling of utter peace created the trust I’ve innocently lain in my everlasting happiness.
The same happiness that has ever so caused me the pain, and sadness, that only comes with loss.
The loss of the life that I will never have.
— The End —