My birthday feels like doomsday this June, a calendar's harbinger of funereal runes.
No celebrations for summertime's reveille, just echoes of eulogy in this sunlit elegy.
Warm breezes should whisper rebirth's promise sweet, yet all I inhale are loss's cloying sour sheets.
Where blooms should unfurl in radiant arrays, I see wilting reminder of brevity's decays.
This month was meant for vibrance, life's brightest theme, but I'm trapped in the shadow of midnights that gleam with existential dread, my mind a smothering loop,
"Another year's prospect only brings dying's hope."
The longest days should energize, awaken anew, but I slump, weighted down by what's yet to accrue as if each sunbeam only spotlights how much of my allotted light has already been touched.
No cakes or merriment can shake this truth's pang that birthdays are time's latest morbid gang, here to raze any lasting delusions of days ever extending beyond their momentary phase. My mind replays the inevitable reel on perennial rewind of winters still coming, loved ones I'll leave behind.
Forcing me to ponder if celebrating makes sense at all if it's just interim before that oblivion's curtain call.
Perhaps that's why June feels this apocalyptic ebb, my birthday a reminder I'm one cycle further from life's web, unable to unsee the finality that each return of the sun unveils another revolution around the void it trails.
YOU ARE READING
Penny for a Poem
PoetryI just write what I see in others or feel, leave your thoughts. If you have any feelings you'd like me to write out lemme know
