The Ever-Obscure Forever-Days
In the days following June,
much of the days were spent in hopes:
above the mist, declaring forever-days.
Then as did Summer, the bars fell–
bringing all that was suspended, and which was 'to be'
back unto ground.
Winds from the West came to budge against
my ever-distant mountain ranges,
only to return unaccomplished, to the plains again.
The skies wept for a month straight, the ritual coming to repeat.
It was a familiar sight to see, since the past five years at least.
And when I gazed above, a veil had claimed the sky;
offering brutal downpours, and seldom glances of Sun rays.
But the effort seemed to have been going on for much too long.
The crops flourished well around this time of the year;
I heard in passing, in the unembellished tongue,
before I grew a proper sense of sight.
And it was a beast to handle, for its might:
The same plants would bear all the seeds,
if not for my fluent perceptions of the touch slight.
In the brief moments that we saw a relief from downpour,
the sky was as I was told: a marvel to behold.
And the Summer had come to end, giving in to the dry Winter:
fog nestled before every door;
mornings were cold, abruptly starting the day,
the treacherous midday.
Evenings painted in red by the bleeding Sun, after a full day of work.
Then the night dawned, indoors turned cold.
My door was knocked again, inviting me to come along and pray.
With the door unanswered, I hid behind the bed,
refraining from using the woods for fire–
it was a pain to get up besides, and pain to be.
The chants eventually bled into silence,
and I held my sole-fort, which lay in ruin since Summer.
Out there somewhere, rested peace.
Nestled near a fireplace, unkept by township,
and unbeknownst of my dire need.
All I saw were faces shaped faintly by the stars.
The least I could do was crawl to the window and close it shut:
putting out the painfully present night sky,
and low hopes the restore of my forever-days.
I caught a few hours of rest.
As the chants returned, the night was nearing dawn.
Oddly, I didn't feel that old need anymore;
and my hand rejected any further labour.
My pen slid away, and however I tried to bring my hand before my sight,
there was little time before fire was put from above at last.