Will I be here
When the next Christmas comes
When winter
Turns the corner
And returns again
Will I see
Another tree

Will I once again
Be able
To leaf back
Through the pages
Of the book
To remember
The space
Between Decembers



             Sean Hunt   Dec 2016 Windermere, UK

my breath sends clouds back to the sky
while bitter winds pull tears from my eyes.

Flicking through old photos
Since forever stashed under my bed
Mum points at one of me
Little, laughing
And my brothers
In colourful winter hats,
Climbing white trees,
A one of a kind cold day
The brown leaves sing
"Weren't you so cute?"
To think Christmas is wasted on me now
And I lie lamenting the happiness of someone long past
My throat hurts at the effort of not just bursting out
Crying
Like a baby as I lose control
In front of my own mother
That wasn't me on that fence
The little face swinging upside-down
That was someone pure
Locked inside me
That was light on a piece of card
I don't feel
Like a person
Anymore
I'm a mish-mash
Of random
Things
I am a split second
That's almost gone
I am traits, emotions, chemicals, hormones, electricity, fear, love, friendships
Fading into a maelstrom of humanness
Mounds of recycled carbon
Made-up meaning
Lost in fog
Where I begin and end fades
Into everything and nothing
I'm the dirt in the ground
The stars in the sky
Something words can't describe

endless flesh searches
jumping between beds
pretending the floor is lava
you're rummaging through piles
of bones, fingers
slipped under the mattress
and behind the headboard

hoping to find something
you can't see at the bottom of a shot glass
or the stub of a *** end

i feel a strangeness in the air this winter
what do you call progress while standing still?
or growing inside the box?
is this what normal is meant to feel like?
cloudy skies
eyes
mind
i've lived a thousand eons in snow
and i fear the eve of my spring is farther still

so i am not a peach
or a peach pit
there's no cyanide laced sweetness in these veins

so this was a choice
or lack thereof?
nothing grows without effort
and i have a belly full of seeds to prove it

swallow your tongue
swallow your guilt
rinse it down with moonlight
and then swallow your hope

blame the lack of blooms on bad genes

so this is the truth
or it almost is
i am the wilted sapling of my own neglect

I imagine myself
A few gentle decades older.
Finally grasping the cusp
Of success.
Living in my own apartment
In New York City, nonetheless.
Wearing an Armani coat
(Whatever those look like.)
Walking idly yet prestigiously
Through winter in the city.
Taking care not to laugh too loud,
Talk to myself, smile too much.
A small, attractive female
Has to be serious to get ahead.
Customers will buy from a happy girl
Only if she is early 20's, at most.
That is Marketing 101.
I am a small fish in a large sea;
The principles of Darwinism
Still apply to me.
I've learned long ago to succeed,
I must stifle the welcoming smile.
So along the familiar concrete
I stride,
Carefully manicured hands
In pockets.
The Filipinos know better
Than to rush on the hands
Of a businesswoman caressing
A successful career.
She tips well and lives well.
I walk along with cool calm
And feminine grace.
I have regained the safety
To be feminine once again.
The criminals know better
Than to infiltrate
The Business district
And cause trouble
To working professionals
In Armani coats.
I imagine myself a few decades older.
Kissing snowflakes unenthusiastically.
Yes, I marvel in poetry, in Nature,
But I have matured
Much like the snowflakes themselves.
At the end of a cycle,
No matter how beautiful.
My actions flow gracefully and delicately.
I melt into New York City
Like a cell in a body.
Pumping fuel into the *****
To sustain the mass.
A tumor.
I smile subtly as I slosh along.
I recall, once upon a time,
On my lower-class youth.
***** jokes, crude dancing,
And cluttered apartments.
I approach the high-rise building
I call home and greet the doorman
With the obligatory disregard
For his innermost being.
Poetry truly is in the strangest of places.
Even in an enigma like me.
I enter the marble floors,
Wiping my feet,
My rent as sky-high as
The building itself.
Elevator. Comforting motion sickness.
This is success.
The pit of my stomach sinks.
I tell myself it's the motion sickness.
I return to my apartment,
With its symmetrical details.
My thoughts return to you.
You've never stepped foot in my home,
But you've always been here with me.
I get dinner started.
I set out the extra glass, like always.
Rituals like these serve
As my Sunday mass.
I drink your glass with my evening medication.
Dare I say like always?

I walked a path down to the water's edge
Where the stream diverged to a larger bay
All around me, teeming with life
The world moved on while I was consumed with inner strife
It wasn't my fault or at least I did not think as much
Rather, it was being human, the cognitive touch
For all I knew and all I thought
I'd buried the lead, gone too far