Ambiguous sky so full of color:
Your rosy complexion mocks my pain,
Driving along a winding serrated edge,
waiting upon the precipice of disdain.

Disdain for all the wrong reasons,
dulled by the sense of an ache,
Riddled with unspoken treason,
wanting it all to change.

The seasons predictable in essence,
as is our merry-go-round,
With a circle change is impalpable,
It just ends where it begins,
In essence.

Fate thought a pliable substance,
no longer can be changed,
A hardened shell of circumstance,
a vivid truth guarding the way.

Though I can change my path,
the road to you is closed,
I cannot travel down it once more,
to be enveloped in your throes.

I cannot end this rhyme,
without saying something rash,
so I will end it here,
with an itch that will go unscratched.