Friday, September 27, 2013

The Autumn Grief is the Swords of Winter

swords of winter come I know
to cut my insides out
your wielding arm should show
me, I am doomed
no doubt;
the ravens cry, the sentinels stand
to testify of this plan
where I shall falter in the broken branches
and find a hollow hand;
breathless, enchanted moments gone
erase the place we laid;
upon an alter I will be done
like I'm a torn out page -
subtle rage
accounted for but not numbered or named;
you listen in but do not speak
watching like a ghost in the corner
but you leave me weak -
you never speak -
shout it out! levy my anger,
sell it to a devil in the dark;
let him eat for all of winter;
he can ignite that spark;
inside I'm waiting to unfurl
but my soul feels hollow;
the whispers of the wind they say
remind me again tomorrow
when the leaves all whirl
in a whirlwind of rage
to mark the moments of
my forgotten age,
and you will stand, tall
and sure and dark
like a stone stacked wall
washed clean and stark;
I will stand below in tangled trees
with cuts on arms and
scraped up knees
clad in leaves;
the air will be cold and smell of doom
like it always has before,
when the swords of winter cut me down
to settle their score;
my soul feels hollow like a worn out tree
in a forest of forgotten things
settled on the fact that I shall be
killed by you mercilessly
oh, the autumn grief;
darkened, doomed, devil's den -
listen, but never speak again;
if words are meant for waking carrion
I shall never wake again

By: Elizabeth Azpurua

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