By Christos Floratos
It is that time, again.
To wait for it to all end.
This waiting is a crux –
A crutch and a lux,
Spread thin over the fortnight’s influx.
This money system has left me bitter,
A tea that has long overstayed.
Corrupted green that has mixed with the soil,
Auburn turns black to brown, to a prodded boil,
Where the honey at the end would always spoil.
I am curious to their appraisals,
That my life is through a proverbial spring.
I may have all the bricks lined on the frontier,
But I confess, it is not yet veneer.
Stagnation has taken my masonry’s finest, oh dear.
It is all an arbitrary collection of bricks and stones,
For Autumn and Spring don’t exist.
It is the eternal summers and winters I chase.
For even though those bricks are lined, houses are placed
No residence could save me from ash encase.
No, I am most definitely in the fall.
Yet defiantly, death and dying is not what I feel.
I am warmed by the sun’s rays and adore the hearth.
Though daises are no longer pushing a girth,
This uncertainty is what lulls me to the earth.
I don’t dread Autumn, for it is going,
But because I know it will arrive again.
White horse with black hooves trampling the ground
And there is discovery in it yet against the sound.
For waiting has christened my crown.
Nothingness has become my favourite companion.
It is they, that lonesome path to permanence.
At the end nought could be done to amend
Except for you, reader, who has provided an ear on lend.
Perhaps the wait will be indefinite – these words need to be tend.
Autumn will be that bastard.
And we will never be through.
We will remain along this cursed line
These cheap words and rhymes, they will be just fine.
These horrible thoughts will be paid through the halt of a lifeline.
© Christos Floratos 2019