Forecast

by Brett J Cole

And so again
I wake to that season
which knows not of Summer's sun,
nor the budding colours of Spring.
It knows not of Winter's chilled kiss,
nor Autumn's leaves at play.

It's a season of and within myself,
where my eyes might gleam
should I find small joys,
but the gleam is set amidst frost.

It's a season of and within myself,
where any good faith in my worth
hides behind clouds laced
with linings of silver that whisper
of wealth beyond reach.

It's a season of and within myself,
where any smile I'd wear
feels like a tattered rag at my skull.

It's a season of and within myself,
where tides swell heavy
deep in my chest,
and should they erode
my sandy heart,
there are shells that sound not of oceans,
but rather of baited breath,
laboured in its waiting
for seasons beyond and outside myself...

When I again know of Summer's sun,
and the budding colours of Spring.
When I again know of Winter's chilled kiss,
and Autumn's leaves at play...

When I again find my place in the world,
away from that season of me.