The Winter Trilogy

This is a trilogy (plus an epilogue) of poems I wrote. I hope you can enjoy. :)

Part One

At War

I am at war.

My thoughts and feelings and visions in my life have been shattered, thrown to a hurricane wind. I scream in the storm, raising my voice in fury and pain. I am angry, for I do not understand. I am hurt, for I do not understand.

The fragile document of my mind is torn now, inclinations and desires forced to and fro. On the one hand, I desire that which is expected. On the other, I desire the forbidden. And oh, how beautiful is the forbidden.

I am led by my heart to that which I am supposed to do, what I am to do for salvation. For those around me, I am normal, I am sane. Yet if they knew the war inside of me, they would retreat in fear. If they knew of my rage, if they knew of my agony, they would turn their backs to me. I am not to be understood, but to be rejected. That is my lot in life.

All I have for hope of resolution is a prophecy that I’m not even sure I want to come true. I am told that I will adhere to the way of the norm but that is only half of me.

I am Jekyll and I am Hyde. I am calm and I am rage. I am kind and I am spite. I am collected and I am insane.

And when others offer me help, they are only damning me. I am to ignore my other half, that horrible, unwanted, complex, beautiful other half.

For in anger, there is beauty. In confusion, there is love. In desperation there is strength.

I do not know what side will win the war.

I do not know what side I want to win.

For now, the battle rages. 

Part Two

Shattered

Back when I was sane, my mind

was a spotless sheet of glass. I believed

that I knew myself, I believed

that the glass had become unbreakable. I thought

that I knew who I was and what I was going to do.

The glass is beautiful, pristine, thin. I protect it, I stand

in front of it and take

the hits; stones are thrown

and I make sure they do not come in contact

with my precious consciousness.

One day, a stone flies past me.

A spider web spreads, reaching

every edge of the glass.

I desperately try to fix the damage, but

as I am recovering, another stone hits

the glass and it shatters.

I watch as everything I know is thrown into space.

I watch as my desires fall to the ground.

I watch as my very understanding of myself

becomes a mess of shards.

I cannot move.

No longer am I safe.

No longer am I prepared.

No longer am I sure.

Stones are still flying and

I let them hit me as I stand there, sure that

this pain could be greater than that of my mind.

I turn to see a ravenous river flood towards me. The water overtakes

the shards of glass and takes me with it. I bleed

as the glass cuts, I gasp

as I get a taste of the water that is so saliently bitter.

I am thrust over a ledge and I fall, certain

that I will never open my eyes again.

But when I do open my eyes, I am staring

at a blank canvas. It sits

before me, beckoning, waiting

to be used for creation. I glance at my arms

and notice they are still bleeding. Without even thinking

I reach for the canvas

and begin to paint, the stains red and ugly.

I do not notice any coherence for some time, but then

I begin to see an image take form.

I work,

asking questions to the still air,

letting my inner self create what I truly believed.

That painting is still taking form.

But within it I think I can see

a pane of glass.

Part Three

Shiver

It is the dead of winter and I stand silently, shivering.

The tears that rushed down my face have frozen. I glance down and see blood dripping from my hand, staining the snow. But instead of trying to stop the wound, I watch as my life ebbs away. A chill wind blows by, urging me to go forward. But I refuse to move.

I am told that there is a golden place somewhere before me. Somewhere warm and inviting.

But I don’t believe it.

I do not understand my plight. I was well on my own until a whirlwind came and shot me down. I thought I was bulletproof but it turns out I can bleed. I am reminded of my dripping hand again and I stare at it, blankly studying the lines of red in my palm. They are the rivers in which I drown.

The wind whispers warmth.

It must be lying because all I feel is cold. All I feel is emptiness. All I feel is broken.

The dead land around me shivers.

I look around, confused. The movement is subtle, but real.

Perhaps the winter isn’t absolute.

Perhaps.

I press my arm against my hand to stem the bleeding.

Epilogue

Bloom

All storms must come to an end.

When I was in the midst of battle

my very mind

my very self

shattered and was swept away by the rain and wind

I was left in the middle of the field

surrounded by smoke and blood and tears.

When I tried to cry out

my voice was hoarse.

And then with an impossible sound

there was silence.

It was as if time itself had stopped.

I looked around

confused.

What once was a predictable fury

was now an inexplicable question.

And I soon realized

that neither side had won.

The war was over.

Yet I still do not understand.

I do not know where to go.

I realize that it is cold.

I look around me and all I see is death.

All I see is white.

Nothing.

I remember I had been bleeding

but when I look at my arms

there is no red.

Only scars.

And I remember I had been painting

but when I look up

there is no canvas.

Only stars.

A blanket of snow covers the land

and I stand alone in its cold embrace.

There are whispers in the air

whispers of a journey

whispers of a spring

whispers of warmth

of life.

I do not understand all that is said at first

and I do not know where it is coming from.

But even though I do not bleed

even though my art is gone

even though the war is done

even though I stand alone

and even though I cannot see ahead

I do know one thing.

Within the trees

there’s a bud waiting to bloom.