Progression.
Blistering snow on crimson leaves,
Open flowers burning in midday heat.
Needing someone back, although it’s been nearly five years since the crash.
When the sky turns lavender and the world looks as if it’s going to end,
right now,
and a scream of pure hallucination strikes a soul still,
It is the storm that awakes progression.
Sweaty fingers and icy toes,
Twine snapping and one, deadly tear.
Sitting in a haunted classroom, although it’s been only five minutes since the bell.
When sickly memories pour down the cheeks of the ruined,
and soft flakes disappear into the dawning fields of dew,
It is the descending thoughts that awake progression.
Fingerprinted windows rolled all the way down,
Whispers of laughter floating endlessly in wondrous streams.
Breathing in drags of smoke, although it’s been only five seconds since your last.
When a word is repeated over and over until it sounds like a nametag rather than a statement,
and a mourning husband plasters himself to his bedroom walls in an attempt to find relief,
It is poetry that awakes progression.