Year

A year is a single white cell
In combat –
bloody, miserable, hurt.
Yet the war has just begun.

A year is a punctuation,
a flick of ink
Barely visible, crucial,
indistinct, indispensable.

A year is twilight,
the corners of shadow,
the shallows of sadness to come
and nothings to experience.

A year is a gray petal
cleaving itself from past and future;
time has lost its meaning.
It flutters aimlessly.

A year is nothing,
does nothing to pain,
goes nowhere from death.
Her weak, bony hands are still in mine.

Mino-san

Autumn

Clouds falling into line,
falling into beat with the rest of the world.
Gentle brushes of white
on a wide canvas of baby blue.

Against that: red
within reds. Yellows among gold.
Oranges, greens, browns
from one to the other end.

Fluttering the colors: a whisper.
Crisp and invigorating. Listen.
It speaks a warning
of the cold white coming.

With the whisper: a murmur.
Persistent. Gay or taunting?
I could never decide
for the language of rivers
is impossible to transcribe.

Privy to the murmur: a girl.
Wide, brown eyes like shutters.
Click, click, click. Memories
of autumn and her mysteries.

via Vegetal

Hopelessness

It is not a hole,
but a gaping pit between black and white.
Gray. Colorless.
Black stuck in its shadow-
Me stuck in that darkness.

It is a shiver that starts in the heart.
A cold that isolates.
Silence that blocks sound and color.
A sea of air that drowns with every breath.

It is a sudden drought that cracks the lips.
It’s sanity seeping out of those cracks.
It’s the hope that escapes with sanity,
The life that crumbles in the absence of hope.