Damp Chill

Autumn fell, and with it all the warmth
of summer skies. The seeds of springtime
flowers have grown wildly complete, and
offer up their majesty beneath the turning
leaves of trees. The wind has shifted, almost
violently it seems; and streams of a cold
dampness seem to settle in the bones.

Perhaps it happens that I'm growing old. Too
old to cling to childish dreams of love with
just one other as eternal. It grows harder now
to read the street signs through the graduation
of lenses of bifocal variation. And yet I tend to
see so many things that focus never brought
into my eyes at all. The cycles and the patterns.
Each variation bringing an infinity of newborn
joy to be itself at last. Then again, perhaps it's
just that my own soul has come to grasp the
altering of this complexity of flesh in which it
comes to move me so.

Angels dance as sprites upon the waters of
eternity; finding glee in just a ray of sun. Flames
of red and orange and gold began to dust the tips
of trees again. This time it seems they do it just
for me, to ease the pain and loneliness of my
insanity. Hope abides, still somewhere - this I
know; and yet a sense of sorrow comes again
to take its toll. For autumn always seemed a
time of loss of life and love to me, no matter
that I've seen as many springs reborn again.

I have loved, no number and no measure ever
altered this. And still I love. Yet again I find
the autumn chill abiding in this bed of just
one form of flesh alone. I know you feel it too,
wherever you might make your bed these days.
Again I pray for love to mend this broken
heart of mine. I hear the sirens singing, even
now - o'er those oceanic depths where every
form of life once knew itself as something just
a little less complex than beings grounded on
and yet beyond the shore.

Cerulean hues remind me that we never can
escape the roots of all we've come to be. And I
seek yet once again to leave the intellectual
spheres of sociality behind; while remembering
the lessons that were taught just there. They spoke
of the unerringness of all division, but then they
seemed to multiply themselves into a blind belief
of creeds that kill the very hope of life itself
as it ascends into all being.

I've paid the dues of all too many moods; so many
recreated by another soul who seeks, the same as
I. And yet I weary of the battles they call interplay,
still seeking a communication that is real; that lives
beyond the facts and many themes of the environment
humanity has built and deemed as all there ever was
to life itself. Towers that fade and fall and burn; some
bursting into flames of hated rage. Unexpected death,
that comes within the negligence of speed that bleeds
the soul from flesh in increments; never will it be
redeemed again in the same way.

Within this atmosphere of earthen glory, in seeking
we shall find ourselves at last. For whatever can we be,
unless we feel the root of all our lives in her...? Accepting
every change and variation. Overlooking bouts of
distempering change that always heeds her themes
of changing climbs. Let those who never learned to bleed
themselves into their lives proclaim, that this is nothing
more than PMS. These labels, with their definition,
only help create diseases without hope of any cure.

Cancerous, the tides are bent askance within the
modes of our denial. Distortion comes to replace
fantasy or great imagination. Dreams are stamped
as insignificant and then forgotten, as we choose
no more than pretaught forms of their selection
of amnesia in bouts that preclude any sense of
healing within this flesh so bound, e'en now,
to the utter meaning of all spirit and each life.
Yet anger rises, sometimes worldwide -
for every time we just denied that anger
in ourselves.

Shall we put the blame upon another nation...? Or seek
a neighbor, one-time friend, to vent still yet another
round of vengeance there upon? A spouse, a child,
a relative? A one-time love that left us far behind?
The deserts of this earth still have their say. Without
them, those pure sands of time would never come to
have their say in us. Yet still, the eyes of one Egyptian
Sphinx must come to mind; reminding us that all of life
has roots within the past of all antiquity - never yet
recorded in the glory of its worth.

I sit here all alone within this room, yet somehow
I now spy those ancient eyes, for they have come
to look in mine; commanding that I come
to understand the meaning even of those
desert winds. And heat expands, without a ray
of sunshine streaming down; as dryness melts
the many tears that seemed an endless flow. I sense
no less than a magnificence within all being; reaching
for no more than our attention in these hours of
neediness, when desert winds begin to blow so many
grains of sand into our eyes.

It seems that we have reached a point beyond all alibis.
I know not where it leads us, nor where we ought to go;
and so I choose a stance of quietude, and listen - merely
listen in a hope of some perception of the thoughts that
flow so freely through all form tonight. I taste the salt
of oceanic waters on my tongue; lips cracking for the
lack of clear, cool water. I feel a heat that burns into
these cells of flesh and blood; yet brings the best of
all that I can be to rise again from
every particle of ash.

A shiver, and a quiver; damp chill still reaching out
and into me. Yet it seems this shadow speaks the
words of the wisdom of eternity. And there, one
brilliant star shines down, leading me yet once
again, towards home...

? Michaelette ?

9/25/2001
Copyright© 2001 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
Take me home...