Its Come To This

Soul Poetry

A weariness of exhausted existance

settles in like a deadly hold

of winter's polar grasp.

Cold, is the feeling,

frozen, the state

of one who's weathered too long, alone.

Tears of icicle droplets,

cling to lashes, downcast

and break away in a mere twinkling of my doubt.

Winds of change come from corners, four.

Where east and west

became my north and south.

And lost, without guidance, without direction,

I wander forward on backward paths

that lead me only back, to indecision.

When did my season's change

in such a way that not even I took a notice?

Nor anyone else cared enough to point it out?

Is this frigidness of a tempered soul

the result of one left too long

to the destructive elements of man's nature?

He never felt the changing of 'our' seasons

or noticed that my limbs have become bare

and empty in my leaving.

I long for a spring once more,

to renew what's died in the embers of autumn

and buried under the drifts of my memories.

Its come to this-

and I need to decide if it is time...

time, I should fly away to more welcoming and warmer skies.

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