It’s relatively, extremely cold In a manner like I’ve just been born
Your heart is quiet underground When before it was frowning, perfectly sound Maybe not perfect, but talking and-
Please, there is nowhere left for me to love Supposed before like Spring turned from
It’s these months Cold and envied Of the last inbudding Long ago seeds were doing
Those life-full alonging Vibrant as you’re buried around them
As colored as, silently beating, The pestilent grey of your heart
“God!” Fading apostoles of time Sneaking such blood through your gut Has me afraid to look down at the truth
You leave. Me, who has eighty more Springs Me, who has failed to connect with your being
We’ve these hangups Real or in mind And, you’re crushed And, I’m over here, hardly a child
So I’ll act-like, staging around The loneliest art form, vague and deformed
Each a petal off my stagnating stem Forever feels the same when I speak in mhm’s
Attested, and stress paced The coffin needs cracking Its structure will not meet The breath of a human
As long, with the Spring dirt compression can last Us, both keep our splintering souls to ourselves
from april 23, 2019 poem from the past a day #13 it's such a messy one. not much to say- there's a coldness to this despite the "spring" imagery. like the spring you imagine during winter. a spiritual sequel to Under in the Snow, again about anger and dying . like a rant in prose that hides.