. . blood typed . .

summer has never known my heart

try as it might

it is too oblivious

to the storm clouds in my eyes

knowing only the lift of my hair

as it tells me to let winter go

still it is not that counterpart that keeps me

though it enfolds me like a sleeping child

safe in the snows that muffle the chaos

the buffer to the screaming that fills my limbs

it is not so simple

and neither am i


watching the sun dance across waves 

content in their heated rolling

i feel only weight

burning down upon me like murder

soft ash and water make porcelain

and i am not that beautiful


i hold fast to the knowledge

I will never be so fine

painted in something besides fragility

burning in cooler flames of weeping lucidity

as they fall from the arms of maple trees

mayhap floating in the forever green

of the last willow leaves

laying soft upon the cool faded jade grasses

that only November can call to me with


i can't let go of the season within my veins

without bleeding dry the pallet of my heart

i am softer than winter would ever claim

yet not nearly lovely enough for spring

i am arbors shedding tears 

against a cool sky made for embracing

as ravens bid farewell to swallows



i am falling


ever constantly


i 


simply



fall