Autumn isn’t what I thought it would be.
Maybe there’s less warmth than I can feel here;
Though that does not mean it cannot lift me
Out of the darkness, away from the fear.
My hands know autumn is far from the cold,
But these same hands feel things that should not be.
This autumn’s breeze could take hell’s breath away
And at once would set the ever-damned free.
But the season’s leaves are already dry,
And roses may grow in the ground once filled
With seeds of hope, roots to erase the past.
Maybe autumn brings too much for these eyes,
Too much to save me from the cold. But still,
Autumn could be the first of what may last.
I feel a special affinity with this poem. I think it might be because it’s the first poem I wrote (and put real effort into) at university. Though it could also be the subject matter. Those with an inquisitive eye will instantly see that this (and any other poems about winter, summer, spring and autumn on this) are not about the actual seasons. I won’t divulge too much, but I perhaps feel closest to this piece because it is an ongoing matter, and seemingly will go on for a while.
I don’t know, I might revisit this poem at some point. Whilst I realise that barely anyone will read this, I’d love to hear your thoughts on it, should you have any (feel under no obligation). Thanks.