top of page

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.


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



Recent Posts

See All

Divine Glimpses: A Child's Journey

https://www.instagram.com/immywrites_/ When I was a child, I saw God I saw Him, but it wasn't through my eyes I heard Him. but His voice never entered my ears I touched Him but never by my skin I was

The Wavelength of a Human called Lola

My collection encourages those to love the pain endured by heartbreak and explores the journey from a personal perspective/ The night you left I remember the night it happened I don't even think you r

My Roots Dunked Zeep

I met her during an overwhelming winter The gloom of Demeter exhibited With frigid frosted ground And unsparing winter wind Yet her eyes gleaming and mellow Causing my admiration to spurt out And when

Commentaires


bottom of page