Frosted Chrysanthemum By Sky Steffiare

A late September evening breeze

flits through gentle windchimes,

as it pushes a stream of smoke

from newly lit fires. The bittersweet

taste of nostalgia lays atop the quiet

conversations around bonfires and blankets.

The first leaf falls.

Cold air brushes the ankles as the city

Slowly wakes, the clicks of boots

across pavement seem loud in the calm

Of early morning. Hands shoved into pockets,

The world cast in gray, with no other soul,

the only warmth is the air leaving a mouth.

The first snow falls.

Nail tipped fingers scratch against the scalp, pain

radiates on the side of my skull. Life is

getting harder. The world moves quickly,

And I sit in the deafening quiet, watching

As others move along and don’t spare

A passing glance. I sit and watch,

the sun soon falls.

Sat in bed, phone screen emitting

the time an hour before my alarm.

I could go back to sleep, I could get up,

but I have the energy for neither.

Nonetheless, the bone-deep tiredness

is pushed aside, and socked feet

touch the floor, the mind too tired,

mentally drained by the act of waking.

But still, I rise,

the moon soon falls.

Slim fingers run gently through their hair,

Head resting in a lap. Gentle humming comes

From above, an ease settles over them.

Life is not yet normal, deep exhaustion rests

In their very beings, insecurity and sorrow

Sits upon their chests. But at least now

when rest calls, eyelids fall.