Ice pelted over the summer breeze,
Clouds run under the once blue fleece.
Air is heavy; gets harder to breathe,
You’re the thought over me like a planted seed.

For once I knew poems were just rhythms,
Empty messages when it all seems
Helpless as I wonder to make out of it,
Foreboding words stands out incomplete.

Like the rain, prose comes out unnoticed,
Although both come in season and by promise.
The wind may have blown a cloud at my back,
Same as the thought of words that I had lacked.

There might come a time for me pouring
All my thoughts to paper, recurring.
As the rain over the roof drizzling,
Everyone drenched rounded up scowling.

And as I end this poem with none much the same.
Just like the rain pouring all over again.
The seasons change – all but then they went,
When as my thought gone up, showered all I’d spent.