I am a lonely old season, waiting for the solstice.
The harvest has ceased, the wasting begun.
Summer no longer tickles my chin
and frost reigns supreme over my body.
As winter looms, I turn within;
thoughts of sacrifice weigh heavy
upon my wrinkled brow.
Oh how I wish that Hyperion were here!
I wish that I had not left him behind
as I sped toward the whiteness,
his crimson skies a lasting trace
of pain that lingers on the pretty snow.
My withered arms still reach for him,
a burning ache for which there is no balm.
I am tired, drifting slowly from day to day,
waiting for the Titan who was wrested from my breast.
He is gone, for now,
whisked away to worlds beyond,
and I, I have fallen.
Copyright © 2010 by Christopher Chaffin – All rights reserved