while a symphony of cicadas
sang narratives
in summer darkness
she wanted nothing more
than to be like August
as a kid
she carefully colored
within the lines,
but often pressed too hard,
and now finds herself hating
the way her poetry nearly
bleeds through the page
but there are nights
when August is stretched
across the windowsill,
demanding life from
the quietest corners
of her mind
daring to ask
what might have happened
if the lines weren’t so thick
and who exactly dictated their curvature
but before she has the chance
to part her lips,
he is always pushed aside
by a timely chill
and replaced with the
come-and-go
of foliage and falling leaves
re-enter
the twisted comfort
of September
she closes her window
the darkness
is silent
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 10:48 AM UTC
while a symphony of cicadas
sang narratives
in summer darkness
she wanted nothing more
than to be like August
as a kid
she carefully colored
within the lines,
but often pressed too hard,
and now finds herself hating
the way her poetry nearly
bleeds through the page
but there are nights
when August is stretched
across the windowsill,
demanding life from
the quietest corners
of her mind
daring to ask
what might have happened
if the lines weren’t so thick
and who exactly dictated their curvature
but before she has the chance
to part her lips,
he is always pushed aside
by a timely chill
and replaced with the
come-and-go
of foliage and falling leaves
re-enter
the twisted comfort
of September
she closes her window
the darkness
is silent
#life #summer #pondering #certainty #unknown
