I wrote the summer long ago, and asked her to be kind. I wore down the winter bone, beckoning home, waiting for springs fine. Listen. The bow bends creaks, and banes. The swollen hope of summer wanes.

All I've ever known. Is to write these general poems. Images will flash before your eyes. But I will never let them guide you to the occurrence of my life. Every feeling I feel may be strong, but seems overly dramatic to the planets strife. This has been a brief view in my head. Enjoy these carefully constructed words of images, and build them into your life instead.