These Seasons
There is no misery under the sun,
by the sea.
It’s bright and warm
and lush and life abounds.
Yet
There is misery everywhere else.
Desert and drought -
It is a morbid landscape -
the heat smothers the life out of every living thing.
Everything withers and dies under the oppressive heat.
Oh.
And the cold.
The bone-chilling cold accompanied by
the bleak, grey landscape that is painted in hues of sadness
and drab colours of death and deprivation.
A minute in wicked winter windchills
will take your fingers, toes , nose , or it might just
lull you into the winter sleep of death. It’s all so
Wicked. So
Unjust.
These Seasons.
Where you are born is everything. Chance.
It all seems so terribly unfair.
There is no utopia. No equity.
Nothing
Is kind or just in this life
for the most of us.
Only for the few.
Why, my hopeful God.
Why is this so true?
