Seasons.

Seeing cracks in the ceiling;
The little rivets in many directions.
Veins, my veins or that tree’s?
The one across the street.
I saw it’s veins, the ones in its leaves;
Scattered all down the concrete.
The lines in your eye.
I see my reflection;
But I only feel affliction.
If pain never flows;
Where will it go?
I should send it on its way;
Disappear it fades.
Memories remain;
It’s time to separate.
The bud will grow, the music it sings in my ears and all of the colors change at such an alarming rate that I almost pass out. Soon there is a beautiful oak so close to my window. Blood of an oak can cure any confusion from life. Just hold it’s leaf in your palm.

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