Italian October

Alone, I am like the Maple Tree
In the middle of Winter.
Dead, with no beauty, except on occasion,
When the glimmering snow dusts its branches.
Devoid of emotion, incapable of feeling joy or sorrow;
Utterly numb by the
Cold encasement of ice all around.
Like an ice Queen, beautiful,
Yet terrible for Her empty soul.
Everything touched transforms into
Something wonderfully dreadful in its beauty,
Yet lacking the beauty of the heart.
Completely desolate of expression,
The Grays and Blacks fade together,
And darkness descends on her velvety wings.
‘Til the world is but a colorless void.


Yet when You are near,
Time is rewound and the season of my life
Is perpetually Fall.
As my world bursts into color,
The chill in the air awakens my long dormant senses,
And releases the emotions of life.


Happiness, sorrow, depression, the flash floods of pain,
Anger, hope, faith, wonder.
The ice is shaken off my heart and the ability to love oneself,
And most importantly, the ability to love another is again renewed.
Yet, since my soul is autumn, I am perpetually on the brink
Of being thrown into the frozen nothingness of the winter solace.

Without you, my Italian October is forever an eternal wasteland of black and white
…the death of imagination.





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