of a young bird

there's this theory 

when the seasons change

our internal moods shift as well.

felt myself..  

like watching waves crawl back into the ocean 

under a dark mooned night..

like the lone white feather that trails in the shadows floating below summer blue leaves 

felt it coming to a slow burn like the tip

of my black 

crushing against my gold asher

crashing. 

but

it doesn't hurt

doesn't even tingle 

my steps were inches apart 

to go home to an empty place 

to be home in a desolate space 

movement along the streets became such a struggle  

i hailed a car 

justified because the A train was the last place I needed to be under these conditions 

underground 

too dark under 

too low 

but 

avoiding it

is as impossible 

as not avoiding it 

still low in this window 

this one candle lit room

living space for one

sounds like a phone off its hook

no one to hang it back up

no silence in this cave but

it's without a voice 

without an answer  

aching 

empty veins

heart beat moans 

songs of Billie or Nina

to escape the mad walking dream 

mirrors awaken the memory

i can usually beat this tar of an emotion 

except in fall

there's this truth

between night and dawn 

causes the sky to be tear drop blue

the air moist enough to grow arms

and fingers that wind my thoughts 

in the dew of words:

this is a season with self in leadership 

you are not down you are different. 

not the same

vision. 

decisions. 

Source said:

keep your joy. 

my joy. 

don't let the insecure embarrass you

don't let lost laughs fret you 

silence is not staring at you 

it's affirming you

you're not wrong for your feelings

allow them

let them in

let them out

like the morning breaths of a young bird

like the morning cries of young bird

be unapologetically you

me

unmask

you cannot make other people comfortable. 

not anymore. 

it's a new season.

i rose with those words of dew from the low to a new

a day white of intentions 

pure of afflictions 

morning