It is now we are forced to reckon with ourselves more,
As we try to return and enter again each door.
But alas a heart can barely take,
Rejected quotas of another one's state.
The burning irons hasten,
To ones icy glazing stare.
This the repeated motion,
Ending in failed flair.
What more can a fool offer to those of intellectual fair?
I have digressed almost every notion,
To which this mind compares.
Of springtime and summer moons,
Heart-filled seasons with lazy afternoons.
Is not love here and gone too soon?
A special place in one one can belong,
At times only ending.
In sweet bitternesses song.
