Spring Won't Come By Azzandra

I've had summers; sprawled on the sand, harsh sunlight sweeping over me. I've had the laughter of children into the distance, the rushing of waves and the cries of seagulls, the never-ending days, with their sunsets exploding in bloodied skies. And the soft caress of butterfly wings, while walking bare-footed through the grass, watching snails move as lazily as the days and birds sing their sorrows... Yes, I've had smiles.

I've had autumns; idly watching an ant climbing on the tip of my shoe, while the soft ruffling of dried leaves lingered. I've had my days of sitting on a bench, watching the bird depart and the leaves gathering in heaps on the ground. And the long hours of rain, splattering on me and around, tapping the leaves in the rhythm of my soul, while I listened and tried to guess my own concealed thoughts. Yes, I've had calmness.

I've had winters; feathery snowflakes hesitating to reach the ground, taking their time. I've had the tumbles through the snow, until my clothes were wet and my limbs were cold. And the chance of standing alone, in the middle of the endless white, my thoughts all blending as the snow into an eternal field of nothingness, while the silence consumed the cold feeling and the distant padding of footsteps, as my soul left this heavy carcass, to soar away. Yes, I've had numbness.

But I've never had springs; delicate snowbells and the small rivers formed by melting snow, the trees lowering their branches to let their white garments slowly slip off. Or the pale white sunlight bathing me in delicate warmth, while baby birds chirped and the first green blades poked bravely from the dried bed of leaves. No, I've never had happiness.

Spring won't come to me, I've scared it away with the harshness of my soul, the tears that won't allow its fire to consume it. With the flutter of wings, it flies just above me, just out of reach, with the promise of 'one day'. It is sad because it cannot touch me, cover me with a soft veil of comfort. I've driven it away with my summers, autumns and winters, so it is my fault. Won't somebody out there help me catch it and hold it captive in a far end of my soul, only for myself to enjoy? Won't somebody give me their spring? Or at least a butterfly net, as when I hear the flutter of wings, to reach out and catch it? If not, I can only wait for it to come by itself. But no.

Spring won't come.