NO PATTERN IN THE PATTERN,
BUT DISASTER FOR SURE
In the Springtime, everything blooms. And then
by the Solstice it's all over in June. People call it
happy, people call it gay. But, alas, it's all finished
by then for sure. Hiatus, when everything sits. The
Summer just says, 'I ain't a'marchin' anymore!'.
-
There's no getting back from what's gone. Each
tree is tired, every branch just wants to wilt. I stand
alongside the willow, wondering what winsome world
will take it away. Over and done with. A memory.
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