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By Meredith Falls
There are seasons in which clouds
Weave blankets of echoing indispositions,
And in this time, wretchedness
Falls in sync with our vulnerable positions
Tell me honestly, when I
Sip from mugs of memories and heed afflictions,
What it truly is that I
Consume in the name of nostalgic depictions
I cannot explain to you
Or give any sort of coherent prediction,
Whether it’s my aching heart
Or hungry soul that notes the sky’s dereliction
The sky, which is cast over,
Purges from my soul fascinating dejection,
My heart is filled up with joy
When the gloom mimics my desolate reflection
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