I shall Reclude to the Myth of the Unfound Stars
Today, I caught up to the pace I was being pulled at;
an inevitable source I don't quite understand the being or functioning of.
It's a feat in itself,
to live through all moments of the Summer declaration,
till nascent Winter, and witness resolve disbanding as complacency tarnished the knot,
and the strands came undone.
The fierce rage then doesn't dare to dream of the bygone flamboyance again,
and meekly resides in remote crevices of mind.
The sight is the sense most easily persuaded—inviting all foreign ability, and courage
to irrigate its desolate land—it's a drought in dire need:
the body, the eyes, the senses, and the soul.
They ache for a thunderous downpour that cries wistfully
and pours recursively for years of absence and neglect.
"It deserves to be exerted and utilised until the last drop,
it had kept me starving for long."
"Now that I've planted the seed of your demise too, it shall be a spectacle
for the rest of the world as the raining clouds, and the land of droughts
perish before spring."
The clouds were remnants of the deceased I later realised;
they’d retained no tongue from their past lives—no way for them to converse,
or the intellect to calculate and express guilt.
Many associations come to meet their fate in a similar sense,
time can only leverage the hurdle of nuance,
not of courage, or spontaneity of an acted-upon chance,
since people that imbue the 'Summer revelation' remain caged in study of the past.
And the people that reside on better terms with contention,
must give in, in turn to norm.
Three more days, a couple more times we pass each other in flesh,
each moment seems urgent, hurtful and significant;
the discrepancy is of shared perception,
it kills substance, and the deep-engraved desire.
The Sun sets in the hills again.