How the Seasons, always
they do separate
when comes the time is final.
To leave us only, with their absent faces
caught between the brittle branch
of man, and wind.
Red random now, are those petals poor,
thoughts of tears
that bury deep, beneath our hurried feet.
In blacks and whites of reason
whose distance far divides
in what tomorrow strives to bring.
And, when the mornings, sunlight smile,
diluted in it’s length of stay –
shall dim to fade.
We, will offer no more
understandings of this fight.
But in words of empty, shallow ending days
I hope you understand:
We are sorry for your loss.