Seasons | Poem

[I. The Force That Tugs]

Steadfast.
Resolute.
Definite.
Unyielding.

These concepts hint at the story our minds have grown tired of hiding, holding, wielding.

Steady hands paint constant strokes against the parchment of my heart.

Ink stains reveal transparency.

One can’t exist alone.
You cannot avoid being affected.

I see it as such:

Visions of a life captured in a painting, owned by an old couple, hanging under an arch meant to keep a dream alive.

They wait for the seeds of patience, casually strewn across the field of their hearts, to grow, to reflect an ideal they hope to find within themselves.

There’s an air of unfiltered confidence around their wishes.

Because something seems to stir their lives in a complementary fashion.

They hope it’s some divine mixing of dates and stars conspiring to bring them together.

And who could blame them for wanting an elegant reason for a love so supreme?

The conditions for the blossoming of their unconditional love were met long before they met.

[II. The Rope That Cuts]

Reality pierces through the poet’s veil of genius.

Abstract rhythms only hide something so simple:

A failure to commit to the concrete.

A failure to consider.

A failure to meet
Reality head on.

Some say there is a right way to do it all.

The artist’s rebellion is conforming whenever their art demands it.

No artist ever decided to be one.

They were chosen.

So, what of the artists who were chosen and then later abandoned?

What’s their excuse for continuing on to act in an artistic way?

What’s my excuse?

How full of myself could I be?

[III. The Hands That Hold]

Butterflies, eyes, bursting hearts, gratuitously extravagant galaxies take shape in the limitless expanse of the cosmos.

Images of clasping hands expand and contract in on one another endlessly as imperceptible amounts of what we interpret as time pass on.

An astronomer peeks through a telescope so very far away.

A still picture of those cosmic hands captures her heart.

She wonders to herself…

But hers are private thoughts about private dreams of private hopes becoming real within her lifetime.

To daydream of newer days while staring into the black of the universe, this is what will reveal the humanity in us all.

But it leads one to ask,

When will we stop measuring life in terms of humanity?

When will a term arise that captures the states outside of our limited view?

When will true bravery take hold and lead us somewhere new?

What will it be like when we let go of our universal significance?

When will we proudly take part in the larger community?

[IV. The Seasons That Reveal]

The homeless woman spoke,

“Years ago I had a conversation with a friend about time. We talked about tea time, nap time, bedtime, breakfast time, and the like.

She felt as if the seasons, our bodies aging, and the anticipation we felt while waiting for Christmas day to arrive were just measurements for something that functions on a larger scale.

She said that us humans need something we can grasp with our hands.

‘Life is hard without an end date,’ she would say.

I thought about the feeling of being ready to do the things that once frightened me.

With no pressure of completion I’m not sure if I would have ever moved beyond those fears.

Would I have ever professed my love?
Would I have ever pushed myself to kill old habits?
Would I have ever told you this?

Perhaps not.

No goal to score in, no reason to kick the ball.

No reason to kick the ball, no reason to start the match.

No match, no need to practice.

You get the point.


But then I thought about art.

I thought about the bands I loved, the bands my ex-wife loved.

I thought about the poems her current lover wrote.
They captured something that felt real. They were satisfying to read. Hell, I even turned some of them into paintings with my own two hands.

There was no deadline, no performance, no paycheck on the line. The privilege of the freedom of my artistic expression was made manifest.

And time was no factor.


I think about my friends, in regards to time. They tell me of their drug experiences, in which measurement of hours crumbles away to the feeling of minutes passing by. There’s a distortion in their minds that reveals how loose our grip on time is.

They remind me of the fun we’d have as kids. So many days were lost to running the streets. I’d even say months were lost to the woods.

Another instance of time slipping away and speeding up as our minds age further…

How much time has gone unaccounted for in your own life?

How much have you wasted by sitting here and listening to this old woman ramble?”

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