Where The Autumn Sings

My name is Forest Green, but my eye's are heavy blue. I taste of rust, and smell of smog.

I remember dreaming, but only of one thing.

The sound of the falling fall around me.

And Falling.

And falling still.

And stretching vast under a forgiving sun. Where I first loved. Where I first found God.

And the gentle friction of rain eroding it all away. Where I became fond of the depth's of loneliness, of realities. The somber place where I first lost Him.

I remember the cold Autumn snap of my broken heart. I remember daring it to beat again.

I remember the jolt of electricity when I failed to breathe. The erratic grasping of trying to gasp again. The silent calmness when it was finally all undone.

This is the tune of my loss. It's echo keeps me company, but only at times such as these. When my words stir the leaves like the brisk November wind.

I play it out on my walkman. For I cannot afford an ipod.

It is insanity I know. To think like this. To take these meandering jaunts through meadows and mind.

To lose myself, to my meaningless meanings. To lose myself, to you.

Should you ever come to find yourself lost upon a wooden trail. With naught but the relevance of times past to cloud your thoughts. Dear friends, a solemn word of advice. Never attribute the sound of snapping twigs under foot. Unto the collapse of your love.

For will you ever walk reminded.

Instead imagine it as that thoughtless wind upon your back. For as persistent as it may be. You will only ever pause to consider. When the occasional gust blows off your top hat.

This is how I came to sit on this old oak swing. This is how I came to tell you my tale.

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It is a strange juxtaposition. This half blazed cigarette ignored in one hand, and the vibrant green foliage upon which I stare.

I imagine the leaves cowering back from fear of an ancient death remembered. As if this billowing smoke represented some engulfing fire from their distant past.

I imagine my lungs feel much the same. I rationalize the thought by my desire to not disturb the pristine living floor with the ashes of my butt.

I dare not add even a tinge of humanity here, especially mine own. So instead I swing. Careful to not let my feet sweep the ground, but eventually they must.

I stop this self indulgence, only for a minute, as I remove my Nike tennis shoes. My socks to follow. Much satisfied I finally allow my feet to come to rest. Digging my toes into the dirt. Like the roots of my oaken ride. Absorbing the nutrients, and timeless memories that only nature can afford.

This is how a man convinces himself he is stoic. That he is one with the infinite beat of the universe.

This is how a man convinces himself to forget why he has come here. If only for a brief eternal moment.

Decidedly determined to face reality. A new moment burgeoning to life. Beckoning a spiraling mind unto the task at hand. The silt between my toes changes into the beach sand of a memory. A time with laughter. A time entrenched with a playful forgetfulness of nature. A time with her.

It has been so hard, and taken so much time to arrive at the place where I can speak of this longing. Of my very own Forest fire. Pardon the terrible pun.

I have been lost to the Springs of my past. The yesterdays that were full of life. It is past time for me to embrace the Autumn of today.

Her name was Broadway Lights, and her eye's were of soft iron. She tasted of flowers, and smelt of a cleansing rain.