The Missing Season

The Missing Season 27/07/2020 Whiffs of summery air grow startlingly unfresh Dying like a withering dream yet almost deathless Ruffled by an impasse of a senescent, uncrossable viaduct that goes beyond my knowingness, beyond my conception Of an unknown poison instilled merely into my air Blossomless springs, rainless winters and sunless summers Yet the missing season is still an untold story of a tired self Trying to winterize itself for the soon-to-be winters ahead… All of the un/randomness -of wintry possibilities- maddens She, all the same, awaits for thousands of summers instead Away from the insufferable stuffiness that strangulates her She willingly remains afar yet unwillingly she goes further Not in the dark does she detachedly dwell, nor in a beacon In a semi-dark room of her own, she scatters her thoughts to get drowned into their boundless, unfathomable oceans toward the innerness of thoughts she steps back and forth. Dreamless nights very drearily resemble her dreamy nights Those of the dying birds. On her own she fancies the Quail That reminds her of the once brawny nest by the mountain One season with an orphic symbol is still forever unfindable And the pretermitted leaves remain rigid though shriveled Unwilling to be vulnerably wept, they embrace summertime A summer of their own from the figment of their imagination Softly it drizzles upon their souls, and again they are revived.