Could it be the frigid weather
Or the low hanging branches that day?
The world seemed to be out of place.
Winds echoed through chimneys, across rooftops,
Places where the air was once still.
Leaves drifted to the ground, riding
the atmosphere
in bountiful loops to its second abode.
The earth was moving faster than my
anodyne-tainted senses could fathom.
Oh, how this time of year frightens me.
Stores closing, families gathered ’round flames,
How these flames could set one’s conscience ablaze with a single lick.
Could it be the frigid weather I dread?
No, it had to be the low hanging branches,
Swaying as though they were being pushed
by nature’s heavy hand.
These branches, constantly tapping my window,
Giving me false hope that someone has come.
Maybe, this time, on this cold day
Someone has finally decided to visit me.
Elated couples walk by
Never glancing in my direction,
Fearing their own sorrow.
Families with small children pass me,
Gifts spilling from their arms,
Wide smiles plastered on their innocent faces.
Their spirit permeates the floor, but still,
The world seems to be out of place.
I can hear the wind, but can no longer feel it.
Air runs stale,
Food no longer warms my pulverulent soul.
My mind continuously relapses,
To times when I felt the sun
Breaking through the steel clouds.
The beams can no longer be too bright,
For it dampens my mood.
I place a clammy hand on the window,
Freezing temperatures rushing through my palm.
I look down on the world again.
Everyone is connecting
Whether it is by accident or fate.
Leaves are still falling,
The branches are still shaking,
And I am still here,
Isolated in my flavescent past.
Maybe,
It is me that is out of place.