My weather is not delicate, soft and lukewarm.
My summer is not a light brush of shoulders in between crowded doors,
Or a gentle, light laugh that shyly forms
In low-tide waters far from shores.
Impoverished by the absence of summer light,
Embracing the brightness of night,
Finding solitude in the silhouette of moonlight,
Seeking rest in the busy business of the stars’ fiery quiet.
I am dim shadow, blind
Moments blocking the sun’s light, cannot find
Gold and yellow mantelpiece ornaments elaborately refined
In messy tapestried memories woven into the labyrinth of my mind.
And in neither blinding sun nor cloaking dark, I am submerged,
Leaning over clifftops, bare toes teetering on the verge,
Testing the strength and the depth of my nerve;
Grey swords jutting out; temptation along the drop’s curve.
Body wingless, overlooking partial palaces.
What remains of kingdoms once containing masses?
Emptiness in once loud regions like odourless, poisonous gases.
A century passes, fog clouding sight as vision surpasses.
There is a thoughtful sadness in the fervent sun.
Mind possessed by laced-up memory, gradually becoming undone
By thoughts that absently abandon me once they are begun
The light still masking and marring every single one.
My weather is not tame and delicate.
My wind more often a storm, raging and violent,
Sun dismissing and disappearing, darkness of night my quiet.
But even the deepest gloom can be a shade of violet.
I am flame attacked by wind, bending but not snuffed, as far as it can reach.
My whitewashed wasteland of ashes into golden sands on a tropical beach,
Each single grain holding whole oceans of strength under a microscope,
Quivering on the horizon of infinite hope.
– Jen (reader in a reverie)