He said, summer time is when.
When he would change his way.
Not serious enough at that moment.
Perhaps.
Lip service to those willing to listen.
A game he often in his life has played with himself.
It's not born of lies, but rather procrastination.
He said, those pictures i've been wanting to organize.
He said, that poem i've been wanting to write.
Announcing to himself loudly, come summer time.
Midway through spring,
the cold winter still thawing,
his own bones still frozen.
He notices his health deteriorating, slowly.
A cough that lingers, shortness of breath.
Energy reserves on fumes, he unknowingly but truly knowingly falls gravely ill.
He says once again to himself.
Summer time I will see my doctor.
He says, summer time I will organize those photos.
He says, summer time I will write that poem.
Summer time never comes for him.


written by me... ..