An Original Idea
(Do not disqualify clichés are intended)
It blows through like a summer breeze,
rushing and whispering and teasing.
It uncurls like a flower in the spring,
seeping out like poison into the skin.
It patters winter rain,
but yet inflicts a different kind of pain.
It is within us and yet without us,
illusive till it can be found no longer.
In searching for it,
it has already been lost.