POETRY

Sad in Spring

Salt, nihilism, and a muddling sense of loss

Photo by Vidisha from Pexels

Salt in the air,
In the lump in my throat,
I smell the sea,
As if the end was near.

Sprinting into heat,
The flowers wither and fall,
No chances to bloom,
To correct one's mistakes.

The seasons from books,
Subtle smells in the air,
A rush of energy,
Added to the list of things,
I will never experience.

Thought I was done,
But now more torn than ever,
Those who were buried,
Crawl out, stakes in hand.

One more thing,
I coax myself at midnight,
It doesn’t matter but still,
Better done than empty.

Keeping it busy,
With a list of sundries,
Chasing some kind of normal,
Am I distracting myself?
Barely, until it’s over.