Waiting for Spring

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A few...
... dashed memories
... foiled wishes
... scattered dreams...

Winter followed Autumn, and soon came Summer. There was yet no sign of Spring.

He would walk the street, jacket pulled over his shoulder, seeing everything but taking nothing in. The newspapers screamed out the changing face of the world. He would look around, searching the crowd for a well-known face. Strangers they were, and they always will be. They spoke languages he knew but bore no significance to him. They talked, shouted, bargained, fought. He paid no heed to his surroundings. He scanned the sky for a sign, the earth for a path.

The Fall... of Snow, of Leaves, of Rain.
Heat. Lightning. Thunder.

There were always signs, there were always roads. But none were intended for him.

He stopped.
It was smooth, beautiful, soft and luring. He glided towards it without knowing why. Without even asking himself why. It was beckoning him, as it did many others.
They flocked towards it. He followed.

He was way too into it when he snapped awake.
Quicksand. Everywhere.
And they were all sinking into it, watching each other disappear.

Not that it mattered. He would not want to escape.
Not as long as Spring refused to arrive.

The flowers that withered would never bloom again.
The leaves that fell would never be green again.
The trees that were skeletons would never be covered again.
The rivers that dried up would never see floods again.

And still, Spring evaded the streets.

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