This spiral falls apart, as it reaches the end.
An elusive spring grazes by, Summer arrives—
a few more advances are brought to halt: by some-unsurmountable will;
of closed collective greed, of a few, under the facade of ‘greater good’ perhaps.
The Summer is no more—
the progression doesn't live its course.
The imbecile's expression untamed, alignments with the absurd—
stripped, as his juvenility, for feathers of flight in turn.
Under the practice of this sultry-worship of collapse,
the unkept sky becomes a constrictive guide—
free flight traded for commutes,
reducing the Ave, to a mere means to some end.
As the strings are fastened against its wings—a perpetual route is laid.
Of the fallen twigs, the Ave builds a nest.
And when the silence churns away what little sanity it might possess,
the walls that hold the home abode, might become the walls
in which the self is lost.
I'll die in winter—
untend as the rest.
All that glimmered, all glamour, all passion, and pursuit of possession
came to rest in a distant grip, of a foreign hand—
all but conquest of the eternal sound sleep,
which too lacked any sparkle of life, as it came by—in a sullen vile-Winter,
putting me away at once, as the warmth fell.
Burnt, or buried, or left out to be scavenged under the Sun, I wouldn’t know:
I gave in as the coldness engulfed me,
stripped away the obligations that were imposed,
At last a tender touch close my eyes, consciousness faded,
and I ran back to my pre-juvenile hold.