With Hands Like Seasons
Sipping coffee and reading papers,
I let the years of memories rewind,
Like winter and autumn,
You held me so close,
Like spring and summer,
You let me unfurl,
They were days of joy and tears,
With every minute captured and feared,
Never to be overlooked in the breezes of time,
Because you framed my soul,
So delicate and cold,
Wrapped in ribbons of golden,
With hands like seasons,
You secured every blueprint,
In bearings they had doled out,
And when some stranger would uncover me,
He would find a picture of a lady so smudged,
Carelessly,
Sipping coffee and reading papers,
Laying there still and silent,
Waiting for my audience to settle down,
Waiting for the shivering lines to straighten,
Within the boundaries of the floor,
To narrate a story
Of their fame, turning into gold,
Just like nights covered by spells and charms,
That last until digital breaths fade away into beeping alarms,
And still, I lay there swirled and curled,
Embracing freedom blazing and bizarre,
Capturing the view,
Of my remaining audience few,
And serenely fall on the morning dew.
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