The west coast in green, the prairies in orange; Transition, direction, but a pause in between. I was a child of autumn, now there’s frost on the door’s hinge, barring my way outside until springtime finds the sun.
Two people in their yard, hanging on for dear life as time whips away the world around them. Green lost underneath a thick quilt of umber clothing; clothing once used by the trees to mask their barrenness. Trunks transformed into watch posts, keeping an eye trained on the horizon, weary of the old white man, old as time itself.
I’ll be honest just this once- because we all know how our very lives twist the truth of our hearts, cheat our closest friends out of real intimacy with us, and attempt to coerce everyone into donning their rose colored glasses in our respects- as my heart is drawing nearer and nearer to the ledge where it stands overlooking a great chasm into the depths of human nature, I never thought I would care about all this, about all of us, as much as I’m beginning to.
I can feel a transition happening, like I can feel the coming of the rain in my bones, like I can hear peace leaving my limbs as I wait. It’s so impatient for me, this peace is; I continue to make it wait so long as I continue to make plans. Plans to find peace, plans that keep it at bay.
That night, I was promised trees; I can see them in my minds eye and they mean everything to me.
As the words from your mouth fall to the ground, take up their spades and start digging your grave, I know I made a mistake.
Small things come more reluctant than a stutter