A Snowfall

I stand behind the house, behind the windowpanes that gleam and glisten with ice blanketing the grass. I am in solitude; I look into the whirlwind, beautiful, deathlike and envelop myself within my listlessness.

I feel no joy, no sorrow, no discontentment or contentment-I am simply emotionless just like winter and its children: snow.

The snow is gentle but bitter like my countenance; the overcast sky is greay and bleak like the fall of humanity. I am apathetic, dreary, weary; my life is temporal like the snow in its death.

Evergreens, junipers and maples are garbed in royal robes of white. And there are dead, dormant trees that haunt as if they were indignant shells of demons. All that stirs is the zephyr that wisps my hair, the tendrils of vibrancy deterred. There is nothing more than the silence of serenity.

I feel the excruciating chill as it pervades my fragile body. But, despite its unrelenting fervor, I will not acknowledge its damage.

The fragrance of the pines and junipers are pungent yet inebriating as its robust scent emanates in the frostbitten air. Then, the sickening-sweet stench of damp, decaying bark saunters nonchalantly into my nostrils, making them flare in subtle malcontentment.

All that I taste is the air’s brutatlity as I breathe it in; it hardens my tongue and tortures my teeth as the cold, frigid air is inhaled. And as I slowly relinquish my soul to despair, the winter is comprehensible. Nature is master; it kills only to resurrect.

Ashen Morning

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The dawn settles as symphonies of peaceful silence and choruses of doves coo and echo throughout the flat fields. Dew droplets bound from blade to blade and the distant rush from the wayward car leaks into my welcoming ears. I awaken before most: 6 AM this time. The sky is a dusty lavender with bruises splotching its body, much like a beaten mother in the aftermath; beautiful but difficult to see. Trees are sombre shadows, giants existing in a world that seeks to destroy myths.

Cattle roam slowly and moo in disdain as brittle grasses choke their frolicking young. The dogs brutally howl in fear and warning when cars make their way down the gravel road. Their eyes glaze with animal blindness and instinct overpowers the domesticity.

My eyes search for the sunrise. The chill of a moist morning clings to my aching bones and clutches my awakened skin as if he took hold of my arms and shook me with an angry passion. He says, “Turn away! Turn your eyes from me!”
There I stand, my common contemplation haven, holding glass that smoulders. The vibrantly illuminated horizon whispers his name, reveals his face, unearthing his smile, destroys the silhouette. My chest tightens; my throat hardens; my eyes water pitifully. The lamentations are brooks of sorrow that flow from my mouth. They are muffled to a mere trickle; sobs of dire spirit that reach only the shores of the banister. Splinters in bare feet are of no concern now. The ashen morning provides no escape.

November Has Never Been So Bittersweet

November: the final steps taken by autumn winds pirouette and the birth of winter renewed. The leaves–brazen and copper with petinas of silver light–fall to the earth in delicate twirls as tiny children humming tunes that reach no ears. There are eyes to catch the motions so subtle and beautiful; they grasp the wonder few dare to see while light and shadow, wind, trees, grasses sway in harmonious accord in the final celebrations of a season well spent.

The grass becomes brown and brittle; the bush turns aflame. Each are signs of the past, signs of my consciousness. November ought to provide me with a new-found freedom that I have longed for so long. November should reveal to me the hope that may never come. And though my age shall pass one more year, it maybe that enthusiasm is unwarranted.

I know that when the day arrives, I shall breathe of fleeting excitement and I will leap and prance…but then I will remember his smile; his glistening eyes that entranced my love-sickened soul; his face luminous and soft. The vision of a siren in the emerald and concrete floors. Eighteen. Eighteen: the number floats in my head. It has no destination. Eighteen sighs the inner self.

I had dreamt of this day being the day that I would be deflowered, spent in the arms of the mortal Eros as his soft hands wrap around my tender arms. But who can ever trust dreams? This is the life I lead, the course taken. And as I peer at the cherry leaves circling in the gravel, the dance is one of solidarity. This dance will be the dance I do alone. Brian Lemasters

Ghosts (Letter to Myself)

Youth: the blossoming of spirit, mind and body. It is a font of wonder, discovery, self-awakening. What you’ve come to realize is taken with a grain of salt. Sometimes, the salt is between your fingernails; you lick and bite it from beneath them because you need it, crave the pleasure and the pain.

It is also the gateway into new beginnings, new delights, new regrets. You go in with one conception-a flurry of ideas and ideals, a dream of what you’d like the future to be-and come out with an entirely new one. You find things you never thought were real (or at least in your periphery); learn things you didn’t think were possible; do things you thought you’d never do.

Firsts…it’s the ultimate sense of self-realization. You test yourself; learn the innermost workings of your heart and mind; dream of things you didn’t dream of before. Like the hot thrill of dances in the hours of dawn; the taste of heaven and death; the wanton lust that plagues your conscience. Guilt…yes, guilt. You’ve launched yourself into a black hole, opened up a can of worms you’re going to have to account for at some point, some place, some transcendental moment.

Everything seems so overwrought at times.

But you’ve got to learn what repercussions are. When you forget, you are grimly reminded that you are all but invincible, infallible, indefatigable. And in the dark corners of your soul, you prepare for oblivion, cringing in shame. You trace the hours weakly; you saunter halls feebly; you follow shattered worlds into the voidlike stares of the many personages you tried to kill, keep to yourself.

There was something you thought you’d never do, but one line…one line. And by God, it was good.

The Farther Away I Am

 

    The day is bright and luminous. It is warm, beautiful like the embrace of lovers in soft sunlight and lush fields. The birds twitter with delight, vigour, with the arrival of Spring, but the song in my heart resounds with longing. There is a price to pay for sanctifying the illicit. What is the offering? A melody for a memory? He has already taken parts of me; I have relinquished the phoenix to the dawn with hopes that it may rise where I have fallen. I cling to my soul, clutch with desperate ferocity to the shards that slice my throat. There are only traces of my heart that remain and yet they wish to murder me for a crime I did not mean to commit.

     Out of the blue; out of the glade where promise, wonder, and hope prevailed; out of the world I wished to conquer and into the blackened, charred wasteland to which I am banished. Is it a cloud I’m passing under? No, just a cloud of surrender. How the dark shadows tower over the arid plains of my withering spirit.

    There is a restless look in the mirror. It reflects the deeper self, cradles the sadness, consumes the bliss so that the ritual can be completed. I willingly offer my blood-crimson with the fury of the heart’s malcontentedness, simmering with the rage of thwarted dreams-to the alter of fools. Sacredness is only an illusion, only a delusion.

    What can satiate the emptiness, quench the thirst for his leaden blood? The farther away I am, the closer I feel to death, to heartlessness. The dream that brings us together is the dream that tears us apart.