Hiems Aeterna

My fingers press aging nylon strings onto a beautifully faded rosewood fret-board,
birthing and weaving sweet chords that mate with verses of hopeful lyrics

My song,
My child of baritones and minor melodies,
Dances in the empty spaces,
Entertaining crowds of wayward ghosts and curious angels

But for all its simple beauties and licentious harmonies, my song lacks an air of newness

It's an old child dressed in recycled chords and hand-me-down lyrics

Underneath its skin is the skeleton of the same prayer I have bled into uncaring nights time and time again,
hoping for the resurrection of a rotting love I refuse to untangle from my soul

But I know that when my familiar music has ended, and the ghosts and angels have gone off to enjoy more interesting concerts,
They'll be no embers of love, no resurrections to behold

It'll just be me in a room with an old guitar

Just as it always is

I... hate this cycle, this demonic nostalgia that dances in my veins with neither pause nor end

They say that time heals all wounds,
If that's true, I should have stopped bleeding by now...
... I should've

Or maybe there's something about my aching that strikes a chord of ambivalence in the heart of the cosmic hourglass

Whatever the case, I'm so fucking tired of making love to memories

I'm tired of emptying beer bottles just so I can laugh at the seams of comedy in the tragedy that clothes me and write poems too raw to read back to myself when I'm sober

It's been years... being lovesick isn't cute anymore,
It's fucking poisonous

It's a masochistic hymn that calls me to offer tribute to an absent goddess of a fraudulent religion that was nursed in the gardens of an infantile mind and raised by the antiquated morals of an inexperienced heart and all too willing soul and...

... and...

... I miss you...

Naked of pretentious minor 7ths and saturated poetry, that's all it is:

miss

you

Your smile fit perfectly inside my heart...
... and I'm having a really hard time getting over it

The spaces between my casual liaisons, daily motions and nightly machinations are too full of you:

of dreams,

of moving paintings,

and star-kissed midnights

There've been a bunch of proclamations and exorcisms,
A lot of 'I'm over it' and 'I'm done thinkin' of you,'
And all of them have had spines too fragile to carry me to any place meaningful

Truth is: I haven't really figured out what to do, and don't really know where to start.

My mind is growing accustomed to running in circles that lay within circles,
and my heart has develop a taste for sorrow

But... in this sea of futility and memory, I have a star--a solitary arrow--I'm following:
It is written that for everything there is a season under heaven

I've been a child of winter's season for a quite a while now,
and I'm just praying that somewhere in me,
is a man of summer

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