Like the summer heat, I lay bare, allowing trickles of sweat and want to drift down my chest.
Perked by the wisps of autumn, I watch as my mind fills with whirls of color in hopes of new beginnings.
Then soon, sometimes too soon, the dregs of winter stream by, and solitude sits heavy once again.
But spring, ever far, holds the echoed shrouds of blossoming truths that sweat, hope, and solitude can’t seem to amend.
This cycle, this vestibule of ardor and despair, how it trills like birdsong in the background of my life.
Lest desolation is my fate, these seasons of emotions may possibly be just right.