What shall I say of the seasons?
In Autumn’s throes another limb crashes down
Used for naught but the kindling of fire
Even of Winter’s frigid squalls barreling through
The very flesh on my bones remain void
Spring’s clouds hang beyond my head- tears smite my brow
Yet the sun will not bear to behold me
What say you of the Summer?
Her heats of passion were never mine
Bound to me but meant for another
In her heat was the cold of separation
To be near to the heart but tossed away
Was I invisible to you
A tedious circumstance
Insignificant from your lofty heights?
Was there one more worthy for your passion?
It is certain
So release the branch!
Let it rot!
Perhaps you found more enjoyment
To watch me wither away
Would it be so that Summer is temperamental?
That the world’s maker from his creation be exiled?
He wishes not for the sun
He fears revelation
So why shed light on that which is cast away?
The scars of Summer was borne in ill fate
But I urge for more
Perhaps when I have naught to bleed
Will I neglect the pain
Finally unable to feel
Oh, the times one imagines confrontation
Not for his sake to heal
But to mar his transgressor
The times thought to speak
Of his hate
Of his malice
Of his pain
Of his love
Of his desire to once again feel the Summer’s rays
But with desire comes memories
With the memories; pain
Silence is his comforter
A malevolent spirit
An unuttered cry
Assuredly, Spring’s watery darts will pierce my heart
Yet can they outweigh mine own?
So shall Winter’s mocking cry
Sweep me from my feet
And so I shall drift
What do I have left to fear?
Can I still feel?
Again, another limb will crash in the midst of Autumn
Again, it shall it be destined for the fire
Perhaps, it was me
Perhaps I am withered
Useful for naught but the kindling of fire