The safety of the self is not assured.
There has been a lingering depression
that will not allow one to forget
the eternal glistening soul,
suspicious of all
the icy winds
that have blown through this heart.

I do not drown tonight, in love or lust or oceans,
but take a middle-aged path,
fighting between
the maturity of who I can become,
and the joviality of
who I once thought I was.

A deepening future
slains the wanton foe called age,
lying deep within a self I’ll some day cast aside
and reflect upon.

The tempests sway the mind
into directions other than forward;
a buxom foundation
of whom I fear I will become.

I see my heart giving away
peaceful moments that come
with fallen songs.

I doubt myself for the familiarity
of who I really wasn’t,
gesturing to the one I would become
to hold back,
look into the past
and never lose myself
in a future.

Uncertain as the darkest hour,
the dust settling in and rising
again to cloud a vision,
irritate a throat,
die a death
that is as certain as tomorrow’s sunrise.

It is with the gratitude of age
that I regret
having faced all I have
severed from this life,
all I will take apart.

The icy winds still blow through this cold heart.