Seasons Come
Of Winter’s frost and Summer’s breath,
Verses and sketches etched in bated exuberance.
Whose execution remains faithful and sincere,
With swipes from a human’s crooked shears.
Portraits borne from apathetic ennui
And letters drenched in vehement passion.
However, neither belief of gross tenacity nor zeal
Shall grant these images definite clause in the real
Though no whisper remains to cry its lament
Or angelic entity to sing its eternal requiem.
Ethereal it shall be in the mind of its smith
Guarded from all so none may cause it writhe
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