I feel winter's grasp around the very being of my soul.
It twists and turns with a desperation and tenacity that uncouths my being.
Trying to squeeze out any pulp or sustenance whenever it's convienent.
Although already spoiled and soured and bitter, it must'nt stop for there has to be more.
There's always more to take, even if all the lemons are gone.
Go farther into the roots, tap into the sap that runs along its trunk and branches.
Life has given me lemons so why not take every single one of them for a glass of lemonade?
My leaves turn yellow with fear but I must continue to keep giving.
To keep producing lemons, to keep the leaves green.
For if I can't anymore then what is my use? Where shall I quench my thirst?
The gardener who provides water and shelter shall surely cut down my tree if it no longer provides and only takes space.
But what is a lemon tree to demand such intricacies?

As tears flow away,
My heart begins to pay,
One moment, having no say,
Getting caught in that everlasting gray as I lay beneath my mental fray,
No way shall things make my day causing this heart decay,
Precision incision and displayed on a tray,
Leading it astray,
Inevitably separate way.

Sun-setting,
Seagulls calling,
The sound of waves push upon its sandy banks.

Freely-flowing with its enticing clear-sky glowing.

The sun's glistening amber glow, mocking and staring.

Two souls intertwined whilst confiding in trust and passion.

The roaring silence of burning love under the starry night-sky as the cold ocean breeze whispers.

Sitting on a wooden stool with a sunflower, pulling the petals wondering if I should love again or should I not.
Asking this simple object a question that has caused the rumblings in my mind to bang against my skull.
I should love again.
Love fills me with hopes and dreams that the white picket fence is no longer just an old romantics imaginary scenario.
That it doesn't just slip through my fingers when I try to drink from its divine essence,
Quenching the thirst of butterflies in my stomach with every passing thought.
I should not love again.
Eventually the love flies away when the cocoon is ready to break after taking everything that I have offered.
Flying eastward, westward, or upward. Wherever you're not.
Dragging your heart through the mud, ****, and kicking dust hoping that it'll soon be over but its shadow follows my every step, constantly reminding me of what once was or will never be.
Give me respite or give me death.
If Death is ready to receive me with a loving embrace, perhaps I can find the warmth I've been constantly seeking atop its White Horse which will carry me beyond the borders of long forgotten stars.