"Season of Dying" is a collection of poems that seeks to depict a hauntingly beautiful vision of nature, using the metaphor of spring to express how death can be a process just as natural and meaningful as growth. Each poem details a uniquely eerie view of the season solely through the lens of one specific human sense, such as sight, smell, taste, and touch. A soulful reminder of both nature’s wonders and the cycle of life.
i.
Spring looks like death,
like the bleak expanse of sky
smothered with thick, suffocating clouds
there is no sunlight, but also no darkness,
only dim gray shadows
that stand as still as
atmosphere’s held breath
the world is waiting
in this monotone in-between.
mist crawls over the distant hills,
a billowing fog that creeps close to the ground
you tell yourself that
the shapes swirling inside the white haze
are only water vapor illusions,
not empty eyes or gaping mouths
stretched wide in silent fear
the twisting tendrils of mist
curl like long beckoning fingers
as the ghostly forms in the fog
whisper unheard words in your ear.
the ringing silence of
their dead voices
carries a message of its own:
“we are the damned,
the last dregs of a dying winter
that buried us lovingly
in beds of featherwhite cold.
it was Spring that took us,
Spring that melted away our snow angel wings and ice-carved halos,
Spring that evaporated every last hope we had left
“we are the damned,
the last beloved of the winter long gone,
and we are here to warn you
Spring’s clouds are soaked with nothing but tears”
ii.
Spring sounds like death,
like the gentle drumming of rain
on crumbling stone ruins,
the trickling water tracing rivulets
down the dusty surface
of cracked gravestones
the rhythm of falling droplets
like the rapid beat of a heart.
every thud of pounding rain
matches the thumps in your chest,
every pulse
vibrating through
the ivory bars of your ribcage
is another tick of
the pumping time bomb
counting down your remaining seconds
the rain is coming down faster
and your heartbeat matches it.
time is slipping through your fingers
like the cold beads of water
dripping from your cupped hands
every liquid droplet spilling
from your fingertips and
splashing onto the ground
is another grain of sand
falling through the hourglass
your time is almost up
iii.
Spring feels like death,
like the icy cascade of rain
down your back,
and the chilling brush of wind
on your bare neck
the rain pounds down in freezing torrents,
but you can barely feel the chill
through your numb fingers.
the thrum of distant thunder
reverberates through the ground
and through your feet
water crashes against you
in icy sheets that tear at
your red, raw skin
like it wants to carve a canyon
through soft ruby flesh
and into pure white bone.
the glacial rivers rushing down your back
remind you of this
you are cold,
yet you do not shiver
iv.
Spring smells like death,
like the clean scent of rain-soaked air,
the emptiness of a world washed blank
you breathe in
the lingering petrichor
there are scarcely sweet traces
of nectar and blossoms
in the crisp green cleanness
filling your lungs
you press your feet
into the damp, wet soil
and wonder
what it would feel like
to sink into the ground,
to lie inside the soft earth,
safe and silent
v.
Spring tastes like death,
like the crisp green cleanness
of snapped flower stems
on your tongue,
the light sweetness of
honeysuckle nectar
in your mouth
you breathe in the
sunwarmed air
and feel the pollen
settle like stardust
in your lungs
soon
the deep earthy aroma
and cotton-soft texture of moss
fills your throat
as the forest starts to grow
inside you
leaves of emerald and peridot
sprout through the cage of your ribs,
white blossoms filling
the empty space between your bones.
tree roots wrap around
your pulsing heart,
stilling that stubborn beat at last
the pure oxygen in your last breath
carries an exhilarating freshness,
leaving behind the minty aftertaste
of a sharp clearness
you do not breathe anymore
but you are not gone
Death springs from growth
and you are growing
into something truly beautiful
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