Spring Lament

Sparked by the irregular temperatures and sporadic weather patterns.

Photo by valentin hintikka on Unsplash

The rain has become 
our worst assassin. 
Swift without discretion. 
When dead clouds, 
the color drained from them 
like air escapes a balloon, 
cut the daylight short 
and drop the curtain on the sun, 
it is assured what will happen 
more than when gas is thrown on fire.

Successful without humility. 
April rain doesn't need to come back 
to the scene of the crime 
because it never left. 
Every part of the city becomes 
tainted in a crushing grey 
that was engineered to be 
as depressing as possible 
and then placed at the center 
of a nuclear meltdown, 
but just before it dies, decides 
our city will be the hostage 
that watches its slow rot. 

Now its corpse keeps the streets 
clear of people. Now all I hear 
are solitary cars prowling the city 
like when every romcom's climax 
has its main character wander 
in the rain without an umbrella. 

Coldness without calculation. 
All the days and words I burned 
brooding and pining for Spring 
only for it to skinwalk Winter 
to the point snow flurries play 
peekaboo just before April fades. 
My expectation has been made 
Swiss cheese from being locked 
in an iron maiden of discontent. 
Ran through and bloodletted 
by fear granted confirmation.

Spring craves Winter 
and has settled 
for us.

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