He said :
Summertime is when he would change some awful habits.
Not serious enough at that moment,
perhaps, perhaps just lip service to those willing to listen?
A game he liked to play with himself.
A game not born of lies,
but rather, "who cares" procratination.
He said :
I'll organize those old pictures I've been putting off.
He said :
I'll finish that poem that has been waiting for it's ending.
Announcing to himself out loud,
or anyone else that would listen....
"come summertime" I will. !
And then...
The coldness of winter still thawing,
his bones still cold.
He notices...
His health deteriorating, slowly.
A cough that lingers,
shortness of breath.
Energy reserves on fumes,
he falls gravely, unsuspectingly ill.
He says to himself:
Come summertime I will see my doctor.
He says :
I will organize those pictures into a neat scrapbook.
He says :
That poem I will finally write an epic ending for.
Trouble is....
For him,
Summertime never comes.