Poetry and Stuff
My Monday morning was wet, and cold, and miserable. There was no sign it even WAS a morning, it didn't feel like the beginning of anything, let alone a new day. It felt more like an ending, a sunset hidden beyond the clouds, the sun setting on what was, the rain: tears of mourning for the lost light. It matched my mood, this sombre start.
Autumn is such a beautiful season. I see death all around, and Autumn is just that - the dying of the year. Not THE death; Winter is that; the glorious white peace that settles with snow makes me think of how it will be when I fall into that long sleep. No, Autumn is HOW it ends. The leaves fall, spent but burning with colour and beauty, and the people celebrate the darker elements of society - the gathering of the harvest for survival through the harsh months ahead, we dress as ghosts and monsters, fires burning to celebrate the country's defeat from terrorism.
And yet, this morning, the wet wind has turned the blazing blanket of leaves into a wet, decaying mush, wiped away the comforting smell of smoke and sulphur, and left this maudlin Monday into something that mirrors my mood. No Autumn beauty this morning, not today.
Without you, my soul is like this early November morning. Slowly dying, more of a memory than a living thing. But you? You are the wind that stirs the air, sweeping the golden and red leaves into the air in joyous cascades. You are the bonfires that light the sky, the fireworks that explode like flowers in the night sky of my heart.
You turn me in to what I want to be. In to what I should be. What I was born to be. And more, you fill me like I never thought I could be filled. My soul is a hole, like all darkened. damaged spirits are. We are bottomless, no light within to illuminate what could be down there, but you are not scared to enter.
I dream in metaphors. I think inwards. I talk in riddles. But you understand, of everyone I ever met, and I met you too late, you understand me. And that means more than you could ever know.
My soul yearns to hold your soul's hand, for the rest of our lives. Through these Autumn days, even the wet, miserable ones, and onward into Winter.
When the white snow falls, and the landscape of my life falls silent, I want it to be you that stands in the field with me. Holding my hand at the end, watching the children sledge and throw snowballs at each other. I want you to be the one that watches me smile at the red-breasted Robin hopping along the frost-covered fence.
And as I fall asleep, like the trees and the plants do, to be reborn in a Spring yet to come, I want it to be you whose tears fall upon my face, dead and white like the snow outside the window.
But now, I am alive. And I intend to stay this way for a little while yet. Your love keeps me. I love you.