Not so Springtime
Winter has gone. None too soon.
Summer is here. Was a spring supposed to be.
The days are hot. Nights muggy.
The skies occasionally pour down some to remind us of what the monsoons could be.
Everyone wonders when they will be. Or if they will be.
Moving on is the way of the universe.
Nothing remains static.
Even a solitary leaf on a short lived branch has a place to be and a time to be in.
Good for her.
She came in a time of great personal stress.
Found hope and happiness. And then some more.
And maybe a promise of a future that could be.
Which was not to be.
Testing times. Patience. And more tests that the collective destinies of two souls bring with them from a previous birth.
Or from the insanities that grew in this very.
The moon passes through clouds that attempt to hide it from the world.
Succeed they don't.
Each night it gets rounder.
The light gets brighter.
My clouds get darker.
The clouds mass together in conspiracy.
Calling up thoughts and memories from the dark recesses of mine.
They band together.
They play together.
They scratch out the insides of my head and all that forms the inside of mine.
Each day passes in a blur.
Nights pass in solitary confinement.
Thoughts of her and them pass through like lonely platforms in a rainy night on a broad gauge line.
Those are the ones where you see a single man or a woman holding up a dripping green flag as the train thunders by unmindful of anybody else's presence except its own. Thundering down rain swept tracks, the iron squealing as the wheels pound it into earth more deeper than yesterday. But just a inch less than tomorrow.
There would be little children and wives awaiting their husbands who time their days by the passage of trains through their woods. The station would be a single plank of concrete poured over to satisfy a vote bank with a picket fence and a small hut to house the station master. There would be a water tap or maybe a hand pump if they still exist today. There might be a homeless chap living off the station and its scraps, living in wait of a peaceful passage to somewhere hunger wont be felt.
Summer is here. Was a spring supposed to be.
The days are hot. Nights muggy.
The skies occasionally pour down some to remind us of what the monsoons could be.
Everyone wonders when they will be. Or if they will be.
Moving on is the way of the universe.
Nothing remains static.
Even a solitary leaf on a short lived branch has a place to be and a time to be in.
Good for her.
She came in a time of great personal stress.
Found hope and happiness. And then some more.
And maybe a promise of a future that could be.
Which was not to be.
Testing times. Patience. And more tests that the collective destinies of two souls bring with them from a previous birth.
Or from the insanities that grew in this very.
The moon passes through clouds that attempt to hide it from the world.
Succeed they don't.
Each night it gets rounder.
The light gets brighter.
My clouds get darker.
The clouds mass together in conspiracy.
Calling up thoughts and memories from the dark recesses of mine.
They band together.
They play together.
They scratch out the insides of my head and all that forms the inside of mine.
Each day passes in a blur.
Nights pass in solitary confinement.
Thoughts of her and them pass through like lonely platforms in a rainy night on a broad gauge line.
Those are the ones where you see a single man or a woman holding up a dripping green flag as the train thunders by unmindful of anybody else's presence except its own. Thundering down rain swept tracks, the iron squealing as the wheels pound it into earth more deeper than yesterday. But just a inch less than tomorrow.
There would be little children and wives awaiting their husbands who time their days by the passage of trains through their woods. The station would be a single plank of concrete poured over to satisfy a vote bank with a picket fence and a small hut to house the station master. There would be a water tap or maybe a hand pump if they still exist today. There might be a homeless chap living off the station and its scraps, living in wait of a peaceful passage to somewhere hunger wont be felt.
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