Summer's eyes burn with fury,
her white-hot stare carves through me.
Her bright red hair, soft to the touch
whips around her head as she looks
at the person behind her with untamed fury.
But then her smile softens, like the grass beneath me.

Autumn's presence, like a cup of coffee
softens all the doubt inside of me.
Her soft hands, warm yet cool
wrap around my own as she smiled like a fool.
The moon rises, lighting her amber eyes.
Not a care in the world, for once, nobody cries.

Winter's stare is colder than the rest.
She gazes down at us, lost in her head.
She stands tall, letting her coolness radiate,
forcing the sun to arrive as late as half eight.
Still, her cold demeanor never falters.
I wonder what's on in that great mind of hers.

Spring steps with feet of feathers,
walking endlessly through fields of heathers.
Her graceful leap from a to b
belongs in the songs of tragedy.
For with her life comes many deaths,
yet still she leaps into the depths.

Seasons swirl and change and grow,
and yet they still go for
the same cyclical narrative as before.
Winter, spring, summer, autumn, then winter once more.
They never falter, never die.
They will live forevermore, watching as we mourn and cry.

The familiar ebb and flow of time taunts us all,
breaking us down as we fall.
The graceless dance of seasons come and go, yet don't resist
the unrelenting flow of the river we all fear, for it exists
beyond the familiar veil of home, in the deepest depths.
In order to know the truth of time, we must first meet our own deaths.

(Took a grizzly turn there wtf 11:15pm Sylver)