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Its Come To This
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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.
