Counterrevolution. in Always Recovering, Never Recovered.

Violate this verdant scenery, annihilate the greenery, grab the tender shoots and rip, with formidable, forceful fever-fists and eyes as blank as April mist: watch the springtime beat retreat, an anthemic dance of self-defeat.

I’m a firefly fury just scorching the earth, laying waste to that tentative trace of rebirth: an insurgent, defecting, perversely protecting; pursuing that ruin, the cause I know best; undoing the changes I deeply detest. I gaze through glassy arson-eyes at homelands I don’t recognise- those sylvan signs of spring’s reprise- and only yearn to watch it burn, a luscious landscape scorned and spurned; the winter is wildfire in crimson and amber, corroding the contours, consuming the camber: a visceral obliteration, a vehement, violent conflagration.

A treacherous traitorous act of treason- invert the tide, subvert the season- there’s no such thing as evergreen, I’m still in love with a should-have-been: reflections echo dissonance, the whispered-word mellisonance of softly-spoken sibilants; dissentious, contentious- forever contemptuous- the whispers of winter are frostbitten splinters lodged under the skin, that insidious villain speaks hate from within.

That voice can’t be sated, it won’t be abated, it’s never placated: refuses rest unless it’s decimated every curve that spring created. The dizzy high of new lows the only pleasure it knows- dissatisfied, unpacified, every flaw is amplified, magnified and ratified, becoming fact before my eyes: it demands my defection, incites insurrection, commanding correction; ring every change in scarlet pen, score them out and start again.

Springtime sunshine should be effervescent, still the voice is everpresent; I don’t know how to circumvent its strident screams of discontent, it cries distress from deep within: an army of ants crawl unrest through my skin. This should be mellow geniality and blooming personality… yet the visible vitality of vernal-equinox reality is a grotesque physicality, a punch of pure brutality: this is a temporary formality, it can not be normality.

Contradiction, dereliction, open arms to self-infliction, surrendering to sweet addiction- the gory glory of euphoria, a wounded weak-willed warrior: I can’t withstand those outstretched hands; capitulate to all commands. Those winter-bitten fingertips, encircling in a shackling grip- every one’s a perfect fit, to the bracelet of bruises etched into my wrist.

For all that it’s violent, destruction is silent, and figleaves hide backsteps from those I betray, saving their stardust-blind eyes from dismay (yet another perfunctory action-replay…) as I secretly usher the springtime away. Subversive, coercive; that cold, soulless wind, sweeping cinder-siroccos through all it recinds… let the boundaries harden and fence in this garden: a secret-winter hinterland, preserved destroyed by my own hand.