Crescendo of cicadas

Thoughts inside my mind

swirling, twirling, twisting.

Inside my ears:

a crescendo of cicadas,

symphony of crickets.

Just calm down and cry,

but I can’t release the tears.

I can’t forget the whoosh:

the end of the wind on the

gustiest of days,

the day you decided to exit–

Grand Finale

that doesn’t seem so grand

to me

I step inside all my

darkest spaces

and take up residence.

I stumble through the blackness,

emptiness,

comforted by the resonance

of nothingness.

Still, a never-ending somethingness

straps me down and holds me

solidly:

the sickness of a septic grief.

People face to speak to me,

and I succumb to the absence of silence.

Words and phrases stack atop

themselves,

but I can exhume nothing of sense.

I surrender to the sonic pile of sounds

and simply shake my head in unison.

They shower me with sentiments

of condolences;

I can’t seem to listen.

Snow falls well into spring

this season,

sanctioning a sadness

that stalls me in my tracks.

Summer eventually beckons,

but I miss the message.

The sunny scenes of

wildflowers do not

entrance me.

The sweet smells of

pine trees along the trails

do not impress me.

The seconds seem to slow

to hours,

though the days speed

into seconds.

What is time without

savoring the minutes with you?