The Seasons are in Repair

Countless times have I sauntered down the street and stumbled on nothing but concrete to love on. The bitter insensitivity of the temperature bleeds through the wool that sits sympathetically on my shoulders. My heart cries for a cure for this loneliness. This dark cavity in my heart gets darker and darker when the melodies of pop artist sculpture drifts in and out of my ear with the cold city wind. Beautifully an aged man with a fair beard shuffled through the snow from a sinister brick alley, kissed me on the neck and said ‘let me have your grief”'. I reminisced him, ‘there’s nothing I can do, the seasons are changing and I’m losing my grip. The warmth is slipping out of my clenching. I trip over my ankles, falling after it as if it were a child’s lost balloon. Rising, rising faster and faster, the wind takes my childhood in a red inflatable prison. It drifts into the sky with no return in mind. Its point of view has no intent on my best interests.’ The old chap replied, ‘Grace released you a long moment ago.’ The moisture of his kiss was starting to freeze on my neck. The pact was waxed and pressed. My jaw fell open and my pain, my pain…I misplaced it! Oh what a superb falling out! The throbbing shed off my body like my coat in a warm room. And unexpectedly, I was home. I was never really ready but I was home. A glow of orange poured into my perception and suddenly in my heart it was autumn. Ah, the warmth of my father’s house…I almost forgot the senses.