Seasons pass as clouds blow over,
each telling the same story:
the story of life
As Summer brings drought,
the Winter burns with ice.
The Spring rains pour.
like the icy Fall wind.
The Fall wind is a sign,
it’s icy breath whispering of Winter.
Winter, when Ice grips everything,
and no man can escape.
These winds are my soul,
whispers of an emptiness unfilled.
Winter’s ice of sorrow begins,
and my mind burns numb.
As spring rains wash away my numbness,
I am left alone feeling only sadness.
The summer drought washes across my heart,
I am drowning dry in my own pains.
This sadness, it is a strange emotion,
being sure to hold no foot in rational reality.
Instead it lies in a place of twilight and shadows,
where the curtains of past and future meet blurry and confused.
You know this land as the present,
where life is good and food is plenty.
Where an American soul has naught to complain of
But still life is empty
In this unquenched emptiness, life becomes a search,
A sort of quest for happiness.
Life is a race, but none receives the prize,
for the prize of satisfaction and fullness is always just out of grasp.
As I dream I come to understand my emptiness.
It is a sense of incompleteness that haunts me;
as though my arm shave been ripped off,
but it feels as though they are still present.
Somewhere in my mind lies perfection,
an eternal image of completeness and life made whole.
But in this land of shadows things are hidden,
I am but granted glimpses of life fulfilled.
So I wander, unsure of what I am looking for.
I hope I know her if I find her.