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Season of Dying [A Collection]

"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.


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”


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


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


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


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


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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