It was as if there were to death itself
a quality of rhythm in that season;
the era of my adulthood,
And in that place,
the outlandish edge of Georgia,
the snow-covered mountains
spread around me like soft pillows
to spring into from above,
There was, to begin with,
always the silence –
sometimes only the winds' chilly whistles
As though they were reminding the mountains
to dress in their best crystal coats for the visitors,
I knew them all like restless reapers
for whenever I arrived on top of one of their cliffs' edges,
they never failed to make death look so comfy
in between their smooth snowy valleys,
I loved the waves of shadows
cast by the mountain tops
onto the ground beneath,
I wished to be in them, underneath them,
the long, frozen curves that whispered
for me to jump and join them,
Fading and extending
every time a few wondrous clouds
skirred by the sardonic sun.
YOU ARE READING
wandering dandelions #wattys2018
PoetryA collection of poems about depression, love, and sometimes random things. Please help this lonely af individual feel less alone on this bleak planet called Earth. I'm literally melting off my couch from boredom. The cover was conjured by the magica...
