Seasons of…


I just realized that I haven’t posted anything for almost a month. Shame on me. This is a poem I wrote way back in August. It feels and sounds more like October though. Isn’t it strange that you can write something during one season, but when you return to it later, it seems completely different? Season in that sentence could mean any number of things, like daylight, sunsets, midnights, cups of coffee… the list goes on.

Unnamed Poem
By Julia Koslowsky

She danced in light
And knew no darkness;
He hid away
And felt he was dauntless.
Her soul was awake
With a fire inside;
His mind was a maze
Filled completely with lies.
She lived in a world
Where nothing went wrong;
He couldn’t escape
What he knew to be harm.
Her joy and her strength
Were contagious to all;
It took all his strength
Just to try not to fall.
She lived and she loved
With all that she had;
He couldn’t recall
When he hadn’t felt trapped.
He danced in the darkness
And she in the light;
Eyes met in the dawning
As day joined with night.


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