What is this world we created?
Borne out of shadows and pain it grows
every word planted in a fruitless garden
where seeds wither and harden
and bear no witness to such design.
Fall turns to winter with verses confined
to the coldness of a feeling that froze
in a couple of verses with no ending found
to a story abandoned as new seeds find
its way in a new spring full of dreams.
But to every winter we are bound
playing in summer with new schemes
not meant to last, for every verse dictated
comes to exist as a reminder of what seems
a life destined to the winter we created.