Riley Courtney* A Year Below

RILEY COURTNEY

Malcolm Sedam Winner 2022

A Year Below

He cannot see, as his eyes are closed in such permanence But it does not take eyes To feel the true grief of winter As it takes its reins on the living

Frost has infiltrated his tomb, Extending too far past the light of daybreak, For the sun brings no more comfort, Gathers no warmth, and provides no strength.

The snow is the only conceptual pure he knows As it halts the degradation of his bones; The consumption of his being, Slaying those who feast off his unbridled corpse.

Cold is natural within the Earth, And a comfort within Death.

A spiraling panic hits his tomb With the thawing of a new dawn; not necessarily a better one, As the comfort of winter dissolves with spring.

When his internals begin to thaw And he becomes nothing more than a bloodied puddle Within the ground and among the thistles, He knows his blissful chill has reached its end.

Roots tickle those below In response to their earthly tug. Their touch is so jarring to the corpse, Though the rain is a much greater discomfort.

The concept of growth is so foreign and external To those who have died; Whoever said spring was gentile Is far too composed for the decomposing.

Spring doesn’t extend its pleasantries

To those consumed with their slumber.

Drought captures the land, And the parts of him long gone don’t mind the dry, But the majority of his captured being Flourishes in the bare heat.

The rains of rebirth have slowed Allowing him time to fall completely into God’s hands; The warmth of day is so consuming, More so than the ravenous life around him.

The sun can never reach his ever painted skin again, It grows numb even though it’s coated in some form of light.

He’s reached his final destination, With his ears pressed against the ground that entraps him. The leaves that walk the earth So closely resembles the dancing of those he once loved.

His graven yard has been so desolate; It’s been so long since any true life has walked among the dead, Though he listens to the autumnal crunch with all spirit he has left

To feel the living -- to grasp one’s blood -Would be such a pleasant comfort to his dead