Oh, how I miss the white stuff. No, George, the other white stuff.
Anyway, in the milieu of yours truly:
Overcast smothers sunny.
Cold beats heat.
Winter flings spring.
Memory slays reality.
I've never been one of those yahoos jumping around on their
green brown grass, screaming "yay! the earth blossoms once more!" to the indifferent cosmos above. If you are one of those yahoos, my condolences. This kook likes it the other way (summer, in actuality, is the great bane of my existence, and if I could make it autumn all year round, I would). Flora are cool though.
But one thing I'm convinced we do have in common from time to time is l'angoisse de la page blanche. Thus, some more verse in an attempt to fill the blogging void and to celebrate something -- just not your vile warm weather. So gather 'round the dormant hearth, stick some flowers in your hair and dance the ceremonial dance of the hippies -- a shudder! Pourquoi ?
The unholy conjuration from the infernal depths of my notebooks seen below!
A horror hungry for new victims on which to inflict poetical misery and woe!
What, you thought I'd blather on about politics again for show?
After that introduction, it's best to let this official NATO training video show you what to do upon encountering such a grim beast:
For those willing to brave my typically overwrought and melancholic verse, read on:
What shadow passes by, plucked from long years,
the illusive crucible. Colors dull
in the evening air as tired fingers
of worn breath wrap around, tear out the heart.
Hours bleed remembrance throughout each street,
an old picture of the snow in my hand.
White palette of December, brazen cold
here in the throat, every word in vain.
A tongue stricken with weary repentance
wears an uneasy crown. The livid sky
draws frigid arrows down, biting shafts
unsated. Scores of shivering wounds rise
to sculpt the murder of light’s dwindling glow –
sympathy laid waste, entombed is the day.
My steps painted with a nocturnal mark,
perfumed hymns of our forgotten kingdom
blossom through the ice. Beautiful poison
courses within cathedral heights; the stone
ebbs away. Ruins of idolatry,
conjuring flurries of your witchery,
imprison this soul in memorials.