DEAR CRONUS
Dear Cronus,
If I should die atop this mountain,
release my soul into the sea-
If I am seen as worthy. Father time,
I’m stuck in an endless loop.
Forgive me, but I believe my bearer will bury
me in advance of the season of my ripest fruit
I live in a watch,
marble in a dial watching
Numbers touch my hands
Grasping for new hours
Dreading the future with you
[I knew ours]
Deep below the heart of the Earth
I roam the sands of my hourglass,
Grains graze my head.
Won’t be long before my hour passes
We don’t belong to our past,
A frozen,shackled heart embraced in your warm arms
You burn my chest
And brand the rest
I trace the pattern of my warm scars
My eyes drag
Like the ship that rows
Over the stream of my tears
Stopping as the bells toll
And midnight rolls.
A new day begins-
and my fears accompany it.
Will you take the life I love to forsake?
This is a letter of sincerity,
King.
-
Depression won August.
Our ongoing battle takes up the time I do not have. The score appears irredeemable, yet I persist with the hope of something greater to come. In July, the leaves started wilting. Now in September, I’ve started falling with them. The fall is coming.
A letter to time:
I am in the midst of life. At least, that’s what it feels like. I’ve had my own personal grey cloud for years. Wherever I go, it follows. Sometimes, it sprinkles, and sometimes it storms. I see clear skies from time to time, but recently it’s felt like a race against the weather. I think to myself, “I hope I get inside before it rains.” It always rains for the rest of the day. I come inside drenched in dread. Yet, if you were in arms reach of me, you would believe that I was as dry as a bone. No one else can see the catastrophic storm that looms over my head from day to day. And sometimes it feels like I might drown in a flood that I’ve caused with no one to save me. Then I remind myself of when I was in the eye of the hurricane. When it was only me that could save me. I survived what had felt like Katrina.
Summer is fleeting.
There were no carnival visits in June. There were no day trips to the beach. There were no nights I can’t remember. Only a couple of day visits with my life-long friends. Solitude haunts my daily schedule. There are 4 walls in my room, and I memorized each scratch. I put up new paintings to cover up the bleakness of my space. I wish I could do the same with my mind. However, the romanticization of my implacable melancholia is a comfortable place to land when my mind decides to stop racing.
It feels like something’s coming. Yet, I feel like I’m running in place, absorbed by suspense; I attempt not to grow anxious about it, but the thought feels concrete, “Will it all come to an end soon?” I’m trying to grow in love with myself before it’s too late. I recently typed in my notes that life has looked like a double-sided mirror. The difference is that I’m watching myself from the outside and experiencing it inside.
Where did the time go?
Youth is starting to feel like a faint pleasure. Joy feels fainter. My age shows as I drive past my high school, where the memories inside that building start to feel like third removed relatives. Father Time’s hand no longer holds mine and the future is uncertain. But what if that’s a good thing? My isolation felt against my will, but there’s a chance it was for my will. It’s hard to think you’re doing enough when there are 17-year-olds with apartments and LLCs. My isolation reminded me that you don’t have to “do” to grow. So, this summer, I grew.
This poem is probably the most personal I’ve written in a while, and I was hesitant to share it, but I know it feels like a storm follows some lovers as well. So, whether it feels like it’s hurricane season, slight showers, or sunny skies, keep loving.
published September 10, 2022
