Rose

Where are those good days

most lose themselves in reminiscence of?

They seem to have waltzed comfortably by my window

headed elsewhere, hurrying along.

In the pinnacle of each Summer

I take down the blinds to let

the sun caress me more directly,

bathing in its soft embrace.

When winter comes, it is

accompanied by a darkness,

creeping, icy, a cold hand

breaking in, insidious.

My rose-eyed glasses must be broken

or were simply never delivered

and the future is far from some technological marvel,

it is just more of this, slightly altered,

most likely for the worse,

the world bleeding out

just a little bit quicker,

no more gravity

left to hold its splitting sides together

ash never rising,

crumbling down

into Earth’s growing crevasses.