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"meanace" poems
When I met you, I never knew how hard it was to not laugh The way we cracked up The way your face wrinkled up when you laughed, Like creasess on a paper Frantically straightened Only to find the light fold still there. We laughed like old trees, So close for so long Roots like Memories Leaves like words we knew we'd say But you were hiding something, Something worse than just The insects under your bark. Deeper than the sap in your limbs Deeper than the growth-rings that measure character You had The 94 Now, all but our worry remains You see, it's not a blight, This 94, not a disease, It's the whispers in your roots, The deathly cadence of the wind The indescribable, Overpowering, Trickle of twisted sunsets And deformed seasons, Winter sprouting buds-- Boils upon your branches, Sickening grey around your trunk But not one visible sign Only the molting of your smile, So folded and creased, Only the fade in your eyes While Spring at its peak An unseen sulk in your boughs Brittling your laugh To crackling sighs All this, why 94? Now the story ends where it began So full a number 94, but only the Measure of how overcome A surplus of spite A great harvest of sorrow, Your greatest and happiest But never, 94 While Spring states, "Alive!" Only 6% so, While Autumn brings cloaking frost, 94, brings the snow Your Headress of Sorrow Your blood-gleaming boil, Your invisible meanace. "The tree was never good enough," A passing being once said 'It's leaves don't fall right' 'Why was it planted here?' 'Why is there no fruit' 'Why' 'How' 'What' And so, your 94: Never Good Enough But I ask: redemption? Regrowth? Another Harvest? Another Season? Another, andanotherandanotherandanotherandanotherandanother Now we're back, No leaves on your brow, Roots not flowing for now, But,      barely awake for the sun. Its smile is warm, Rays of life. Golden, gleaming-- Breathe! You're still here Breathe! It's only you Breathe! But how-- Alive? Breathe? Where's 94? Only husks remain No more shadows No oily Rain, No more grey Or bloodened boughs Just you,   and Me,   and the sun.
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Apr 14, 2018
Apr 14, 2018 at 2:24 AM UTC
dominate22
94
When I met you, I never knew how hard it was to not laugh The way we cracked up The way your face wrinkled up when you laughed, Like creasess on a paper Frantically straightened Only to find the light fold still there. We laughed like old trees, So close for so long Roots like Memories Leaves like words we knew we'd say But you were hiding something, Something worse than just The insects under your bark. Deeper than the sap in your limbs Deeper than the growth-rings that measure character You had The 94 Now, all but our worry remains You see, it's not a blight, This 94, not a disease, It's the whispers in your roots, The deathly cadence of the wind The indescribable, Overpowering, Trickle of twisted sunsets And deformed seasons, Winter sprouting buds-- Boils upon your branches, Sickening grey around your trunk But not one visible sign Only the molting of your smile, So folded and creased, Only the fade in your eyes While Spring at its peak An unseen sulk in your boughs Brittling your laugh To crackling sighs All this, why 94? Now the story ends where it began So full a number 94, but only the Measure of how overcome A surplus of spite A great harvest of sorrow, Your greatest and happiest But never, 94 While Spring states, "Alive!" Only 6% so, While Autumn brings cloaking frost, 94, brings the snow Your Headress of Sorrow Your blood-gleaming boil, Your invisible meanace. "The tree was never good enough," A passing being once said 'It's leaves don't fall right' 'Why was it planted here?' 'Why is there no fruit' 'Why' 'How' 'What' And so, your 94: Never Good Enough But I ask: redemption? Regrowth? Another Harvest? Another Season? Another, andanotherandanotherandanotherandanotherandanother Now we're back, No leaves on your brow, Roots not flowing for now, But,      barely awake for the sun. Its smile is warm, Rays of life. Golden, gleaming-- Breathe! You're still here Breathe! It's only you Breathe! But how-- Alive? Breathe? Where's 94? Only husks remain No more shadows No oily Rain, No more grey Or bloodened boughs Just you,   and Me,   and the sun.
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