February 

When summer came that year, it was october.

And, his hands were vines that entwined along the sidewalks; his hair the dandelions floating in the air. His laugh-god, his laugh.
It was the sign of a helpless sort of optimism- of faith and hope and, all that made sinners atone.

He was the only early bird in her frigid palace- singing in sorrow for things that would never belong.

There are moments
Fleeting-
Where want betrays
Reason.

Of climbing crooked
Ladders
To the tops of treason.

There’s danger
in the air-
The purity
Of risk of heart.

Of blind faith
And childish whims-
The belief in
Wanton trickery’s art.

Spinning webs
Of intricate desires-
Laying what’s beneath
On the hearth of the
Forgotten.

Jaded attempts-
Of painting over
Shades that
Would always
Bleed.

He likes to spin lies;
Tell you everything
Is alright.

Wash your spirit anew,
With moments stolen
In spite.

A selfless love-
A mere tale of yore.
Of wonder eclipsed
By pity so pure.

He was like the
Early fruit
Of a garden far beneath
Eden.

Of right and light
And all that saved
Face in chapels
Of wisdom.

He was February
Damned to an
Eternal autumn.

~Simran Khurana

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