the summer days (are over)

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Been working on this one for a while.
It’s kind of a sequel / rewrite of an older post I made long ago:
https://flounderinglion.wordpress.com/2013/10/28/the-summer-days/

it was summer where i lived.

sometimes, the heat got unbearable,
and i’d lament the departed spring breeze.
still, i was glad to have found you, summer;
to have found comfort in warmth so tangible.

from sleep i’d wake to your jolting tidings.
often mischievous, but always hearty;
you were a radiant light of life.
i’d wake with a spring in my step.
for a season in the sun, i had wings.

you always found ways to make my forlorn heart sing.

but seasons come and seasons go;
summer came and summer went.

i bathed myself in the shivering cold.
there were no tears on my face; only snow.
the familiar whispers of the winter winds
caressed me with a different kind of comfort;
the kind i was used to.

summer comes and summer goes;
‘are you real or are you a ghost?’

i wondered and wondered for days on end,
picking at a wound which i knew would not mend.

probably,
summer had always existed only in my heart;
and i only built a snowman as i dreamt.

but even then,
summer was a season where i grew,
a season where i learnt;
a happy season of my life.

in my youth i dreamt of you as wife,
today i resolve to cut you from my life.
there’s still a faint summer’s warmth where i live,
but this time, i think i’m ready to leave.

so i thank you,
for the time we talked on the roof,
and for being the summer of my youth.

 —-

Farewell.

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ignorance is bliss

and so it ended.
what was once the dragon
now frozen in place as a mountain.
its wings spread but incapable of flight.
its fangs bared but what could a statue bite?
its jaws locked in place, letting out a mighty roar;
a fearsome, inaudible roar.
nothing but a relic of the past.

commoners, they waddle along with their common lives;
tending to crops, feeding livestock and counting sheep.
they traverse the valley of yesteryear’s wars,
unaware of the past, unconcerned for the future.
lying on their backs,
watching the mountains from their wagons,
they were full of laughter and with reckless abandon;
blind to the underlying strife, deaf to the calls for caution.
life was peaceful, life was hopeful.
optimism absent from years gone by
was flowing freely and spiritedly in the air.
reality was good.

but what if…
just what if, this was the dream and reality was chaos?
could another war be on the horizon?
is this peace merely an ephemeral illusion?
how long til the dragon thaws and the villages once again burn?
perhaps these thoughts were always on their minds,
but on the surface no one cared;
they were content.

ignorance is bliss.

the summer days

it was always summer where I lived.
sometimes, the heat can get unbearable,
why oh why, spring, did you have to leave?
nevertheless, I always found comfort in warmth so tangible.

a loud jolt from my mobile disrupts my nap,
tidings of nothing but the smallest, littlest, silliest things.
uncharacteristically, I wake with a spring in my step; t
hat season, I had wings.

but now winter rages over my hut;
where Summer exists only in the heart.
the Autumn I prayed for never came.
… and even now I feel the same.

Summer was the season where I grew,
Summer was the season where I learnt;
Summer was the brightest season of my life,
thank you for being the Summer of my youth.

i know, i lament;
but my heart is not ready to relent.

It’s still summer where I live.

the thief of time

here rests the thief of time.
he sought every single dollar and dime;
perennially procrastinating and delaying,
perpetually doing some other thing.

‘i’ve still got time!’ he always thinks,
unaware of all chrono-spacial links.
‘i won’t need forty minutes to get there;
half that time i can spend elsewhere!’

one thing led to another;
the dominoes toppled down further.
overestimating becomes habit thereafter;
whilst misjudging value becomes character.

‘ah i needed forty minutes after all;
hey why isn’t anyone else at the hall?‘
watch the clock let out a ring;
the butterfly effect is in full swing.

tomorrow, tomorrow and tomorrow;
it’s the oft-trodden path of sorrow.
don’t bite the bait;
time does not wait.

here rests the thief of time,
his whole life a mere pantomime.
the glaring regret on his epitaph:
‘i wish i walked down a different path.’