The world breathes deeply through the spaces in its ribcage
Hollow
Yet feels like spades from the queen of hearts puncturing holes in the soils
Cutting, flashes of past mistakes wrought through paper thin skin
Summer days may as well have been winter
For the empty chasm is a cold shell no matter the season
That orangey feeling light seems to echo far away like a distant memory
And all the golden signs of youth eloquently slide down the drain
It could never have stayed without reason
The sound, pleasant sleeper now awakened by the avalanche
Rocky, torn, and distraught, the gardens refuse to smile like they used to
Instead they prowl, weep, and beg for more light
Oh how bitter the cold feels on a warm summer day
One day there will be peace
The waves that drifted away from home will return back to themself
The bleak fields that were once sapphires of beauty will shine again
Creatures will cease their crying
But the world is no longer of its essence
It is not itself
It has become a starved wasteland
A hollow shell of a soul
The Earth longs to come back home
To return to the way things were
To see the summers as they were meant to be seen
And find reason to not fall away
The sweetness of life is no longer visible
For right now at least, existence is dismissible
YOU ARE READING
Until the Day I'm Not
PoetryThese are pieces directly from my head. They're little excerpts of what I'm thinking about
