Shifted Perspective

Each year we get cardinals.

Crimson burning aves,

Speckling and spotting,

The dreary day.

I imagine they’ve always come.

When my home and soul,

Were but fields, woodland,

Nothing.

Dark and barren.

Raw and unnatural.

Clinging, yet dotted red.

I fear that soon they will not come.

All patterns change, traditions end.

I remember her hair.

As golden as an heirloom wedding ring.

A saccharine scent, not unlike a stale pastry.

I was happily entangled in strands of worn yarn.

I remember her lips.

As welcoming as a childhood home.

Soft, tender, a decomposing animal.

Blissfully conjoined for one ephemeral moment.

I remember her.

Love given can never be taken away.

It’s lonely to know

that the world is yours.

A melancholic projection,

of grandiose dreams.

I know that reality is illusion,

And fantasy is material.

I know that I am both god and slave,

led by meaningless emotions,

and futile desires.

I know the secrets this world holds,

But I wish only for blissful ignorance,