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April's Daze



The old March snow,

It turns to drizzle


The black and white,

They blow their whistle


A second wind,

Yet uncountable


Here comes the flood of tears.


The frame, I hold

In a digital mold


The weight, I lift

My grip begins to slip


I sit in dread

I want my world to end


Is that the flood I hear?


It’s a museum of microtears,

A mausoleum of my fears.

What once was real is laid to rest

To appear ideal, I am obsessed


Warm mercury reads on the gauge

But my own is in retrograde

The iceberg has melted, its vapor: haze

But the starboard breaks in April’s daze


The spring is supposed to heal

Until winter comes to steal

Numb to my tranquility,

Yet blessed with immunity.


To spring’s infectious disease:

Please take me to my knees

For the next time I feel alive

Will be right before I die.


 

Copyright Kristian Zenz

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