True Leaves

Back against the wall.

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The thoughts that brewed under the clouds,

In the fog of a cold but gentle winter of grey,

Live now underneath the dappled sunlight.

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Back against the wall.

.

They should have burned under that touch,

Vampiric in their darkness, gone to ash.

But they’ve instead gained inhuman strength.

.

Back against the wall.

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Why do they remain, why do they grow,

When everything good and pretty has

Finally found the courage to exist again?

.

Back against the wall.

.

It is the spring of suicidal awakenings,

Of little seedlings destined to die

By the hand of a cruel, unrelenting frost.

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Back against the wall.

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Breath claws in my lungs and beats

Against my temple with the anxiety

Roaring now with its sun-warmed strength.

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Back against the wall.

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Nothing makes sense anymore and the

Horrific yearning for it all to end has

Shown its face in the wilting shadows.

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The seedlings, the saplings, the sprouts,

They will fight and they yearn for the sun

And they will die even as they try not to.

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And I am one of them.

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One of the unlucky spots of green

Straining through established forests

Toward the beautiful warmth that kills.

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I am one of them.

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The forgotten strands of fresh decay,

Pale green leaves that never got a chance

To learn what color their petals would be.

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I am one of them.

.

One of the poor little sprouts with frost

Strangling their slim, delicate little necks

As it stole away their dream of summer.

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I am one of them.

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Lying on the damp earth, roots disintegrated,

With sagging leaves, not even true, trying

So desperately to catch a little more sun.

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I am one of them.

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Trying to fix the brokenness of these roots.

Trying to find the nourishment to stand.

Trying to see what true leaves I’ll sprout.

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I am one of them.

.

Unaware that I am dead to summer,

That this dream of growth was nothing more

Than the promise of a sunlit spring decay.