The Escorting
My poems have blissfully escorted me
through the gamut of seasons,
having afforded me not the sensations
of their individual touch.
I stand worlds away from the blustering
wind that shudders the meekest of boughs.
My hopes quaver along with their stammering vows
falling from my lips like fronds from a tree.
And such are the leaves that greet decay.
And such are the promises to myself
that become aberrant from their purpose
along destiny's ever altering way.
May the season of love sensate my heart
and breathe into my repine a breath
of everlingering sustenance and depth.
The wintry wind blows wretched and bold
with no whisper of love to be for now
in the background of the strident sound
it creates sweeping through this snow-laden town.
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