The Season of Change

Standing atop the dunes of the Indiana lake shore, I stand alone like a beast of the wild, surveying the emptiness before me. The cold bite of winter is long gone, but her fading teeth marks are still felt upon my fiery cheeks. The waves crash with the rhythm of war drums, drowning out the caws of gulls that fight on the lakes edge over a meal of rotted meat. With the keen eye of a hawk, I watch the day wave good bye against the backdrop of the Chicago skyline across the lake. The setting sun brings me no magic, no majestic picture painted just for me by the hand of god, and no lilac and lace mixed with hues of gold and crimson—–no, on this day the sun sinks like a rock onto my heart; matching the block of cement deep within my chest.

The wind rages against me, and sand tears at my flesh, trying to steal a piece of my soul. My eyes swell with tears of pain, or maybe it is just the agony of a lovesick heart trying to break free from its cage—I know not which. In either case, I weep. More

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