By: Richard LeDue

The past used to be

heavy as a book
I always wanted to read,
but instead found solace
in making sure it was visible
for the people I thought I needed
to impress, while the apathetic dust
weighed me down even more,
like I was a child’s balloon,
so desperate for great heights
without ever thinking
about why.

Preposterous

The thermostat tries to be rational,
giving my goosebumps a number
to help them sleep at night,
only for my seasonally sad brain to wake up
a fear of death
that seems immortal enough to make me
depressed about all my years
ultimately adding up to zero.

The morning heavy as my tired eyes
regret ever complaining of spring
sunrises being too early,
while the fresh snow doesn’t have to try
being on time,
like dust covering up what I want
to believe I haven’t lost.

The Lights Are Brighter Now

Laughing at a Christmas party
years ago, where we were
drunk enough to be devoted
to our own happiness,
only to find faith in our hangovers
the next day, only to lose it
again by the following Friday,
letting our pain be
a gospel we gladly ignored
and the forgotten mistletoe,
hanging over the door in February,
just another cross we abandoned
to the dust, while we worshipped
our memories of blacking out
in front of Christmas lights,
as if the darkness was a god
we created from ourselves.