Alone

when winter comes
I will be alone,
waiting
for it to snow
on the grass,
waiting
for the shadows
to desert me,
waiting...

silence surrounds,
supine yet solid,
fragile, forlorn.
the nights visit,
I find
their company cold,
but welcome.
books freeze
in my hands,
their words tasteless
like ice,
I wait
for meaning
to thaw my heart
to life

poems form,
filling the vacancy
in my head,
metaphors dance,
images throb,
syllables sing in
an unreal rhythm.
but gloom descends
on the paper
as I write,
the ink dries
before it can flow,
and my words lie
waiting,
for spring,
waiting,
for winter
to pass me by

fences block
friendly paths,
as I try and venture
where I've not.
I stand and gaze
at the gates --
as evening
and dusk merge --
thinking of
an unheard music,
calling out
into the echoless distance,
waiting,
for a voice
to vibrate itself
into my thoughts,
waiting,
for the locks
to fall open

the flowers
have dispappeared,
and so has the cheer
of the sun.
the calendar hangs,
withered,
marking without purpose,
a futile existence.
the streets are quiet,
even the ghosts
stay away today.
I trudge
a thin line
between sanity
and superficiality,
waiting
for the courage
to stop,
and say
'Enough!'

***

when winter comes,
I will be dead
and gone,
waiting
for it to snow
on a grassy grave,
mine,
waiting
for the shadows
to let me sleep,
to let me be,
waiting...
for heaven