The Love Song of My Youth
When I was young I would sing.
A little tune from a mild home in a whistling aisle of brownstones along the way to the train yard. Youthful lungs crooned a loud love that echoed along the dew dripped branches of the poplars and found it's solace in the timid hollows of the sycamores. It was a song of love: a song written by my mother, a song that she would hum to me, a baby cradled in her womb, the vibrations courting my unborn innocence as mercy to the world.
As I grew, the song continued: as a young man I would keep it in a backpack too small to hold it's power. It would leak to the snow from my frayed crimson pockets and seep into the gutters, wet with the slush of infinity.
As the years grew by, my heart craved the stoops of my country, but I was swept west on winds of trouble and misfortune. The tune would travel along the canyons as a reckoning mist and screech through the sandbelts as a deafening howl. The song was losing it's love.
Through the ages I wept: I was called to the mountains where the doors were always shut, where the feces of the daybreak held the windows on Christmas morning, where the sun set with shuttered eyes that blissfully mocked the disasters of youth. I was held in a room too small for love and too cold for the homesick melodies of a frightened child, whose penance for living was death. Still, the song became a terror-lined fume, smoking with the angst of a malicious triumph that clubbed my soul into a lonely submission. Time won't spare the innocent; it only loves the night.
I returned home defeated.
I wandered the alleyways along the hovels of the dawn searching for love in the echoes of dim light linoleum. My heart was still in the wind. On new years, the tune became ripped at the seams, the cerulean mist of cheap cigarettes smearing the edges with the black of tar and the tired fingerprints of a living despair. As I laid down, the tune became a lullabye of what was, carrying me along the periphery of dreamtime, but letting me fall a thousand miles below.
It is the summer of my life, but yet it feels so cold. The winds can no longer carry my fancies but hiss a wicked laughter over the hills. The song has grown tired: the words have left my soul, traveling south on the foolish breezes of faraway glamour and stranding me in an oasis of the weary. The wind has taken so much, but now my face is weathered and old, I am tired. Sometimes I sit at a lonely triangle with birds as vagrant companions, the howls of nocturnal vehicles rushing by: sometimes when the moon is full and the clouds glow sallow, my mother sings the love song of my youth and the melody of the famished daybreak carries me over the hills to my quiet home.