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Ah, seasons
they come and go
Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter
we learn to adjust
to the temperatures
and length of days
but seasons of our life
those...
those aren't as easy to adjust to
the season of joy
was the shortest
I closed my eyes to
savor it and
when I opened them
it was already
over
then the countless
seasons of sad
and confusion
and then I realized
it was not mutual
kind of like
what they call an
Indian summer
an improv "season"
that isn't really
a season at all
and then I wonder
if my winter
will
ever
end.
About the Creator
Colleen Walters
Just a girl who likes to write poems, usually inspired by events and people in my Florida life.. Always be you, because you are awesome. You matter. You are enough.. โค๏ธ
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More stories from Colleen Walters and writers in Poets and other communities.
Inmate Six
The Toll of Inmate 6 I cocked the trigger, I dropped the hammer, Chasing a life I thought was glamor. But the flash of the barrel is a fleeting light, And life has changed in the dead of night. If only I refrained, if only Iโd seen, The hollow end of this killing machine. I hear the distant inmatesโ clamour, As guards approach in polished armour. Echoes ring through the concrete hall: "Do the crime, give up your time, give up it all." A gallows pole is now my toll, The weight of the iron upon my soul. The Spiritual Appeal Last rites are read, a spiritual appeal, But the silence of God is the only thing real. He whispered to me in a voice like thunder: "Shouldn't have dropped that hammer, or torn life asunder." My response was solemn as the end drew near, Though I told the walls I felt no fear. But the smell of death is thick and close, A heavy, haunting, final dose. Prayer now departed from my guardianโs hand, As I leave the world of the living man. The Reaperโs Receipt The reaper chimed in with a hollow grin: "No more games to play, let the fire begin. Hell is coming your way, Inmate 6, The clock has stopped its rhythmic ticks." The inmates shout through the bars and steel: "Should have cut a deal for an appeal!" But now itโs late, the walk is straight, With my own two hands, I sealed my fate. The rope was set, the air grew thin, The price was paid for the original sin. The gallows pole took a heavy bend, And Inmate 6 met his silent end.
By Vinn Black7 days ago in Poets
Off the Book
It ended like every other stupid idea. Badly, and alone. Iโm researching digital confession ethics, he said. A tech ethicist. He gestured at floating data I couldnโt see then pulled out a physical notebook. Actual paper, fountain pen. He held it up like he was showing me scripture.
By Nicky Frankly5 days ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
That ending felt so sad. Loved your poem!