Here's something new I've been working on. Its going to be another surrealism piece but its going to be entirely poetry, unlike its sister piece "Dreams of the Weaver" (for all of you that read the latter, you understand what I'm talking about.) Anyways, yes, its going to be called "Seasons of Sleeplessness" or something of the sort... not entirely solid on deciding about that as the title yet but I'm sure I'll figure it out. Its a collection of poems, each with its different corrsponding season, and yeah, here's the first four stanza's of the chapter titled, "Winter."
It's cold: flakes of frost encompass
My already frozen doorway,
And all the world wears white tonight—
Her very best, no more, no less
For yonder Yule celebration.
(You would wear white if it suited
The frozen chambers of the soul.)
Wear white, wear white—oh what delight:
Where snow will reign dark lurketh still!
My room is deep in such darkness
That not even the grateful dead
Would ever dare to comfort me;
Amongst their tombs I sit as they
Lacking only their restful will.
My nights have last one thousand years,
And each seem different from the age
Where we spoke of spring, till the sun
Would clamber up our windowpane.
Night is deep now; and deeper still
Are the caves I feel within me,
Dug solely by your absent wake.
I saw a crowd of children once
With frost upon their rosy cheeks;
They swam and sung within the snow
And hung their lanterns to and fro,
Reminding me of how we were—
Green for your placid peacefulness,
Blue for the chills of frosted souls.
And yes, thats all for now. Ta-ta everyone and, don't worry, it will be finished soon enough.
