The heat of the summer was creeping up my head,
making it clear for others to see my desire,
My faith, my mysteries—
letting my real self show to the world.
The more I open, the more they hate.
The world is built on lies,
and it doesn't welcome someone
With a foundation of truth.
The clouds of the season of showers make me sad,
make me reflect on my decision to live.
When the tiny drops of rain touch my face
With the breeze, it soothes me—
until the dark mood of the weather
stirs up my seasonal trauma.
The autumn winds, when leaves fall,
carry every step with the crackle of the dry,
each gust making the dead leaves swirl—
as if her presence follows me,
With every footstep echoed
by the brittle sound of fading things.
It is the season when most hearts break,
And more get swaddled in a fragile coating of care.
Winter—the season I cherish the most.
It bears neither the scorch of summer
nor the gloom of the verdant rains,
neither the shedding of autumn
nor the heartbreak it trails.
It doesn't mend,
Nor does it shatter—
It simply stalls time.
A waiting room
for the arrival of someone
whose presence holds together
The fragile threads of my sanity.
I do not hate winter.
My soul feels more at ease in its stillness
than in any other time of year.
Alas, I should have been born
In the outskirts of snowy, silent lands,
Living in a cabin in the woods.
The city has wearied me—
I've lost my touch,
My freedom—
made to think and feel
as if someone above
is pulling all my strings.