Shall I Speak?

Shall it be the winter where it all runs dry, my poetry of diminishing returns?

Stifled and starved midst desolate streets, no theatrics to warm the taverns;

As December haunts our frightened limbs, while lungs court the handsome vapour,

So the term closes in twilight that ushers nostalgia seduced splendour.

How days flew by the breathless and broke, by broken homes and broken hearts,

As godless stooges scrounged digital shops, to salvage the falling charts;

No tears saved for the romance infringed, for the surplus of silent scholars,

Whose year old musings roam the campus scenes, secured in eternal pillars.

Regard the pallor of the open air theatre, do you hear poetry in its stasis?

Unveiled in the scarlet sun as it sleeps on glorious summer legacies;

Stories of a distant past dissolved, like unnamed graffiti in acetone,

Pity the proud skeleton that tremors neath the weight of its hollowed out bones.

Yet the world be damned and shut forever, for all it means to we three,

Perched on voids midst certain edges, towered by the circling canopy,

Shadowed by spectres that keep steady vigil, spectres of our abandoned youth;

Oh sweet escape I've so long missed, our pursuit of pleasures uncouth!

But our phrases transpire the harder we try, could it be the wintry stupor?

Or the violent honesty that eyes nurture, in faces since more mature?

Disparities diverse and disputes too dense, to be dispersed in smoky trails;

To dwell in denial of how we've aged apart, sedated by juvenile tales...

In endless cycles hide the horrors of time, unobserved midst the waning days,

Like the steady state of strangers I've painfully known, if only to then part ways,

What purpose belies this eternal return, sure as I am it must dawn anew?

Smothered in spectres like indistinct yesteryears, stranded in answers askew.

So my two stargazers search the sky, while the test tube tinkerer shall ponder,

As divergent roads in the horizon smile, I believe reconciliation is in order,

How quiet the grass has grown since there was perfect chaos neath the heavens,

The percussion of slogans, the chords have died; we must each choose our silence.

Oh bewitching nostalgia for present, are we then down to numbered days?

January spares no space for bleeding hearts, as freshers free the neuron decays;

Let faces be veiled, and voices only heard in verses of December poetry;

And we'll be mavericks once done with the laughs, here's to a final memory.

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

Wonderful poetry shared my friend.
"Oh bewitching nostalgia for present, are we then down to numbered days?
January spares no space for bleeding hearts, as freshers free the neuron decays;
Let faces be veiled, and voices only heard in verses of December poetry;
And we'll be mavericks once done with the laughs, here's to a final memory."
The above lines stood out to me. I liked your flow of thoughts leading to the proper ending. Thank you Swagato for sharing the outstanding poetry.
Coyote