流浪狸

when a flower blooms, what is it but madness?

for these things may seem heaven-sent;

they may seem to hold beauty.

but for you, I keep a wilted rose in a glass by my table.

it reminds me of happier times because I know they will never be seen again,

as the blackened petals of this once-blue flower.

and still while I sit and write by candle-light,

morning frost clouds up the outside world, and I am trapped in white.

white was your colour. white like purity.

white like the room you live in.

but you hated white.

you hated it almost as much as you hate me now.

this music I play, it was for you;

but no longer. I play to ferment myself;

to acquiesce myself to the spheres.

for it is there that I will make my presence known

in but a few days’ time.

you cared for me, and I you, but no longer.

we must go our separate ways, you high, I low,

for we have nothing left to say.

(other than “goodbye” but that never counts, does it?)

and September brings cold, the springtime is all but cold

for I have sinned, and must return to you the things you gave.

for my wisdom; I thank you.

for my insight; I thank you.

for friendship; I thank you.

and for being there; I thank you.

I appreciate it all.

don’t thank you for my stupidity, though.

this is goodbye forever, I guess.