The End of Seasons


None shall know more than I am no more, it will
alas be the first of morning moving in norm...

Greeting the presuming noon of days reprise
to apprise the coming night that it should meet me
in the shaded place with grace if it cares to have
part...

To find me in the field of carved and engraved
stones alone to align my head with my heart, alone
to bid well to the barren understandings I could not
merge with reasoning throughout blessed and cursed
seasons...

I would that I could know the rain then if never
again, though it seems a sad request, yet if I should
cry let the crying sky usher well my tears more
quickly to the ground...

And if I should cry aloud i would have a last chance
to embrace the uttered shudder of thunder and fear, and
have such a cry swallowed up by a night so claimed by
surrender.

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