Cold Crisp Air

Here's a poem that I wrote a few years ago...it personifies how I feel about the fall and holiday seasons.


I dream of cold crisp air.
Its rejuvination brings hulloucinations
of highlights,
the only memories that withstand the
ware and tear of this bleak causal
chain,
no reaction from worth noting, no joy,
no pain.
Just a monotony that melts the
memories into one bleak boring string
of routine.
So that now nothing to me is obscene.
Beauty has no truth, and truth no
beauty.
The everyday emotions my television
screens, only decieves.
I experience none of it and have no
dreams.
Just this heat that leaves me cold and
uncomfortably numb.
There is no doubt i feel the sting of
purgatory down my spine,
and the fear that my time has not
passed, my freedom won't come.
And the only time I am aware that I've
died is when I feel cold crisp air.
The highlights redeem the mind of this
niave humble child,
wild with dreams but cursed with false
ambition
who fought for his position in that
mediocre hierarchy we called school.
And afterwards faded away into
obscrurity, a memory of a fool.
These memories of cool nights, free
flowing conversation,
gossipping falsations brewed by
chemical elation are the only instances
I can walk,
and feel familiarity to the voices and
detailed faces who talk.
And evoke more than a streamline of
comotion and plot,
but feel the emotions created, parties
motivations sought in each situation
around me.
Transforming the molded clay army
that surrounds me back into the scene
it once was.
Where the shadows of people have
souls.
And the sorrows of lonliness
temporarily grant me peace.
A peace only found in spirit, and rarely
found in me.
So many cold crisp nights have kissed
my life,
granting me the bright shine of a
blackened light.
People, places, and moments
illuminated by the black backdrop of
vibrant heaven lend serenity to me.
The defiant, alienated, dying young
man. Lost in life, and lost of care.
Lost of memory in absence of cold
crisp air.