Experience has taught me that poetry has never really been my thing and that my writing style is definitely best suited to prose. That said; I have attempted to foray into the former every now and then for no reason other than to satisfy my own creative curiosity and it is something I hope to try out a bit more often despite the fact that it usually ends merely in a quick retreat to the safe world of prose once more.
Whilst looking through some old files recently however, I stumbled upon an early attempt at a poem that I wrote rather a long time ago. To have kept it stashed away for so long means that at the time I produced it, I must have felt as least some faint glimmer of accomplishment that deemed it worth holding onto in the depths of my hard drive.
So in the spirit of self-improvement and with the hopes of embarking on a better relationship with poetry from now on, I have decided to post that old poem here for you to read while I cover my eyes and hope I don’t live to regret it. Be gentle, we all have to start somewhere right?
The leaves fall and the sickness it grows;
with a heavy heart, his wife, she knows.
Crisp autumn air, a chill in the wind;
no salvation, his destiny pinned.
His heart stops beating and the light, it ends;
the broken hearted, she gathers with friends.
The darkness of winter, it grips hold of the days;
her happiness taken in a sorrowful haze.
With spring comes a rebirth, so fresh and so new
yet joyful moments are still bitter and few.
See how life triumphs as the trees they do bloom;
hope for a future, to break free from Death’s tomb.
Golden and warm, the summer sunshine returns;
the pain of her loss when considered still burns.
But her heart it does heal, one day destined to be free;
like the songbird now resting on a blossoming tree.
A full cycle now done, the date comes back around;
a safe way to move on in her mind she has found.
A visit to the grave in that same autumn air;
as certain as seasons that she will always care.