The Forgotten Day

The joyous sunshine is acid upon my soul.
A warming spring breeze razors across my flesh,
Leaves me bleeding without wounds.
Infant flora sprouting from the earth calls to me.
It begs me grind it from its soil cradle,
Destroy its tender leaves.
I oblige.
Still I thirst for this to be quenched.
This misery, this wanton loathing.
Others see what I cannot.

I move to see it.
In spite, the sun blocks my view.
Thoughts of clouds tease my eyes,
Blocking the glorious rays.
Dark and vicious and lovely.
I see not what I wish.
A cloudless day.
Warm. Life.
Where is cold death?

Days passed are forward,
Day for me has not arrived.
Where is my sunshine?
It is concealed by the beautiful orb, the hot sphere.
This life-giver is drawing from me my will.
I stab at it with my eyes;
It burns them back.
How can it stir these insignificant seeds from under the soil,
Yet do nothing for stirring me?
Again, I toe them out of existence,
Into the dirt from whence they came.

A gentle breeze whips my hair into my eyes.
I curse; it teases again.
Playing.
Tormenting me.
The wind trips a leaf in my path.
A leaf has more joy in this day than I.
The leaf worries not of the day, not of its life.
Even at its end, it has freedom.