Is there a fundamental truth in following the old and the precedent;
When the only thing that is constant is change?

Dragged up from these depths,
Lost in forgotten days,
Nostalgic reminiscing,
Flitting between mirages of past,
Those ancient times,
Which are set in stone,
To the
Misery-filled,
Regrettable,
Present.

Winter has decorum
unlike his sister Spring,
he is slow and ponderous
but she's a giddy thing

That rush of euphoria fighting into our head,
Jolt of adrenaline creeping to the places we tread,
Reckless actions thrown up for the sake of this sensation,
What more can this be called...
but a poison created of our own volation?

Am
I
  Truly
   As
    Unique
     As
      I
       Can
        Be
         ?