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Seasons of Grief
The
first fall
Of gentle snow
Its empty sheets
With withered skies
Welcome me
In deceptious grin
Seclude my mind
With all that’s known
Of why you had to leave so early
Of why I can not grief my loss
Despite it all occurring sudden
I cannot now just yet move on
I don’t understand
The complexities of irritant nature
That covet me in numbed emotions
In lost tales of what is evident
And yet I still cannot quite get
What your foreign tongue might say
Or what new change I may fulfill
The basal autumn leafs
Which hum my frustration
Always multiply and grow
Like the constant forceful wind
Crawling through immortal branches
Cutting petals that grew so long
Destroying everything in sight
Yet even while this occurs
The wind is short lived, strong, and plain
Hurting every kindred flame
Lit so dearly from the storm
Desperate to protect
From the evident fall.
Secluded rest depresses me
Fateless moments hurt me deep
For every summer is unspent
For every hurt cannot be reasoned
With every time I look outside
The garish, horrid yellow region
My mouth turns tasteless to the view
Eyes so bored at lurid faces
Knowing that they’ll never get me
Knowing that they’re all decaying-
Just like you are six feet under
Bliss is severed by your dirt
All deadly mucid with rotted rapture
As I grow numbed to said emotion
Which evoked so much when first began
Isolated mornings seem to mock me
Unwanted nights bring empty dreams
And all this time I spend rejected
For dizzied torment is repeated
Every day the same neglect
I spend barren from your presence
The final dew of lucid spring
Revealed itself in moderate progression
Tender aching of my heart
No longer suppressed from the boundaries of irrationality
The conformity of bloom
Free from any ardent agony
Set me under a vicious embrace
Of all the suffering I have courteously endured
Flora and fauna rooted in inherited mourning
As I begin my dawning steps
Towards the glowing buds with enveloped skies
The last breath of warming air whispering:
Inhale

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My work has previously been published in my school’s newspapers and magazines, as well as Boys and Girls Club’s 603 Creative Writing in NH. I am an editor for my school’s newspaper, as well as on the board for a poetry club. I also serve as a poetry reader in a teen run magazine, Under the Madness, which allows me to work with the state’s poet laureate. Currently, I am 16 years old, and a junior in high school.
This poem, as stated in the title, is my own reflection of loss and stages of grief- being formatted in the different seasons which I've felt them the most. Despite the seasons not being in order, it only further empthasizes how my view of grief escalates into several years and takes time.