Which season shall be my victor
in this sick and silly world?
Will the icy kiss of winter
freeze my early fate?
Or maybe the hateful summer
with its raging humid air
will bake my broken spirit
amidst the August fair.
Will death come in the green of spring
against a bouquet night?
When robins return, and poets yearn
for lovers not in sight.
I hope in fall the inevitable comes
to a soulful Irish tune
while watching a glorious sunset
fade gently away too soon.